


The Blood-Dimmed Tide

by of_raven_wings



Series: Turning and Turning [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Norse Mythology, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Apocalypse, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loki Redemption, Non-Consensual Touching, Norse Myths & Legends, Post-Avengers (2012), Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Norse Mythology, tasertricks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 134,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_raven_wings/pseuds/of_raven_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In penance for his actions, Loki has been sent back to Earth and imprisoned beneath Stark Tower.  New York has been shattered by the Chitauri attack, most of its populace scattered to other parts of the country.  Those who remain in the city are struggling to survive as the world slides towards economic and political chaos.  Darcy Lewis is one of those who chose to remain.  Now an intern with Stark Industries, she is unexpectedly assigned to watch over Loki.  More unexpected, she begins to share his dreams and memories.</p><p>Darcy, along with most of the world, believe Loki to be the greatest evil they have known.  They have no idea what's coming...</p><p>COMPLETE.  A sequel is coming!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_poignant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/gifts).



> I blame [not_poignant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant) entirely for encouraging me to write fan fiction again.

The guard presses a button, and the heavy steel gate slides open.

He glances up briefly, eyes moving over her ID tag, then turns back to the iPad propped on his desk.  Darcy slides a look at the screen as she passes him.  Some kind of nature documentary featuring a spider, its carapace gleaming with green iridescence.  The sound is turned up high, and she hears the clicking of the spider’s legs as it moves across its web, wrapping an insect in silk.  There’s so much of the silk that it’s impossible to tell what the insect is.  She looks away before the spider can sink its fangs.

The gate closes behind her with a hollow, final sound.  There’s a whisper of cool air against the back of her neck as the ventilation kicks in.  Everything is sealed here, nothing can get out.

She pauses, leaning against the gate, the air cooling the sweat on the back of her neck.  The tray she holds is shaking, silver cutlery rattling against white porcelain.  There’s some kind of stew there, with vegetables and lentils.  White bread.  A dish of fresh blueberries.

The last makes her want to throw the tray against the wall.  No one in New York has blueberries now.  No one in the country, probably.  For months there has been very little fresh fruit or vegetables available to anyone, bread almost as hard to get hold of.  She’s been living on her stash of Pop-Tarts, canned beans, Spaghetti-Os.  And she’s been thankful for that, knowing that there are many who have much, much less.

And here she is with fucking blueberries, and she’s about to hand them to the monster who was responsible for this broken world.

She considers just setting the tray down, eating the berries herself.  She considers spitting in them.

The ventilation sighs again, and in that sound she hears, unbidden, her mother’s voice: _When you commit to something, you do it properly, girl._

She wants to tell her mother that she didn’t commit to this, that she wasn’t even given a choice.

She says nothing, just takes a deep breath and moves forward, her shoulders squared.

The cell is located in the deepest basement of the tower, three of its walls solid concrete.  Darcy remembers someone saying that the walls were five feet thick, the ceiling and floor ten, all reinforced with some of Stark’s tech.  She’d zoned out after that.  The technology Stark used might as well be magic, for all that anyone but Stark understood it.  All that matters is that the walls, floor and ceiling are unbreakable.

The last wall, the one that faces the short corridor, is something that looks like perspex.  Something from Asgard.  The almost-perspex nullifies his magic, is unbreakable and soundproof.

He is trapped, caged, silenced, and still her hands shake as she draws up to the cell, to where she can see him.

The cell holds a cot, a table and chairs, one corner hidden behind a translucent screen, bathroom behind.  Despite the availability of seating, he’s sitting on the floor.  He’s dressed in black: slim-fitting trousers, a long-sleeved shirt.  His hair is long, straggling down past his shoulders.  One leg is bent, an arm resting on his knee.  His other hand is pressed against the floor, long fingers splayed against the concrete.  His eyes are closed.

He looks like he’s sleeping.  He looks like he’s dead.

Darcy glances up at the cameras covering the hall.  More cameras are hidden in the cell, she knows.  It is impossible for him to do anything without being watched.

There is a slot set into the almost-perspex near her.  Above it is the button that toggles the speaker system.  The small opening of the delivery slot is supposed to be safe, somehow, but she doesn’t trust it.

She doesn’t want to do this.  She doesn’t want to be here.

She begins to turn away, but her mother’s face rises before her, forehead creased in that same old look.  The one that says that Darcy’s failed again, that she expected it from the beginning.

Darcy swallows, her throat dry, and opens the delivery slot.

The air that comes from inside the cell is warmer than the air in the hallway, tinged faintly with the scent of leather, of something like ice.  It takes her a moment to realise that she’s feeling air warmed by his body heat.  She swallows again, her stomach twisting, and sets the tray into the slot, pushes it into the cell.  Closes the slot again with a rush of relief.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t given the slightest indication that he knows that she’s there.  That, more than anything that he’s done, brings anger rising in her.  She slams her fist on the speaker button.

“Hey, fucker,” she says, banging on the almost-perspex.  “Hey!”  She hears her own voice echoing in his cell.

He doesn’t move, the only indication that he’s even alive the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She pounds on the wall again, hard enough that she’ll have bruises on her hand.  She doesn’t care.  It feels good, the pain. It feels like _something_ , at least, like being alive.

He doesn’t react at all.

 

*

 

Later, when she is sent down to collect the tray, he’s still sitting there in exactly the same position.  The tray is in the slot, waiting to be collected.  The dishes are empty, the cutlery lined up neatly next to the stacked bowls.

This time, she doesn’t say anything.  She holds her breath when she opens the slot, then turns away.

 

*

 

Darcy walks home from the subway.  Once, what felt like a long time ago, she would never have walked alone through this neighbourhood.  Too dangerous, even with her taser.  There had been a complicated system with other students to make sure that no female walked alone to or from classes.  Even then, sometimes girls had been attacked.

Now she’s the only person on the street.  Most of the buildings she passes are empty, their windows shattered.  Occasionally she catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t turn to see.  

After the attack, people began moving out of the cities.  The rich areas emptied first, people moving out to places they owned deeper in the country.  After a while, people began moving into the emptied apartments.  At first, the police forced them out again, but after a while, there were too many for them to deal with.  After a while, the police stopped doing anything at all.  The guy who had lived below Darcy moved appropriated an apartment overlooking Central Park, dressing his girlfriend up in furs abandoned by the previous owner.  Darcy had gone to visit him, found the place empty, all that remained a bloodstained fur and a pile of burned pieces of wood.

She shivers as a breeze winds down the street, wraps her coat around herself.  It would be winter soon, and she hopes that the heat will remain on.  For now, she had heat, she had water and electricity.  But for how long?

“They’ll come back,” she says to the empty street.  “This is New York.  It’ll all come back.”

The street gave her no answer.

Her apartment building is small, the facade bearing a wide scorch mark.  She doesn’t know if that happened during the attack, or if someone else had decided to try to burn the building down.  It doesn’t matter now, anyway.

She pauses on the stoop, looking back towards where she can see Stark Tower.  The sign hasn’t been fixed yet, the remaining A burning bright against the sky.  She thought of him, safe and warm in his cell.  Wonders if he had more blueberries for dinner.  At least that meal delivery was some other person’s job, not hers.

Her door is still locked, thankfully, and she lets herself in, relocks the half dozen locks she added to the door.  Inside it is cold enough that she keeps her coat on.

She slips her iPod into portable speakers, plays a song at random.  She makes certain that the volume is low.  No need to advertise her presence to anyone who might be passing.

She opens a tin of baked beans for dinner, eats them sitting in the window staring at Stark Tower.

It’s only when she’s changing into old sweats for bed that the tears start to come.  There’s a photograph on her bedside table: a teenage girl smiling uncomfortably, flanked by two younger boys on one side, a white-haired couple on the other.

She barely recognises her younger self these days.  She wishes she didn’t recognise the rest of her family.  Ghosts now, all of them.  Like most of New York.

Like her.


	2. Nightmare

The nightmare comes, as it does almost every night.

No matter how many times she tells her waking self that she wasn’t even in New York when it happened, it never makes a difference.  Every night, when she closes her eyes, it will come.

She wonders sometimes, when she is awake, where her mind even gets all of the images from.  She watched some of the news footage, of course, but unlike most people, she turned the television off after a day.

That day was enough.  And now, every night, she gets to live the attack again and again.

Sometimes she’s on the ground, running away from the Chitauri.  Sometimes she’s high in one of the buildings, watching from a desk as the Hulk plunges through the glass as though it wasn’t even there.

One thing is always the same, no matter where her dream goes: she’s never anyone of consequence.  She’s always faceless, always nameless, always just one of the screaming, terrified crowd.  She’s always running, and she’s never getting anywhere.  And she always knows that she’s going to die.

Tonight, her mind offers up something different.  Tonight, she’s on top of Stark Tower.

She’s standing on the edge of the building itself, right on the precipice, her back to the city.  She can feel the waves of heat and rushes of air from explosions behind her, and before her, she sees them: Tony Stark, suitless, and Loki with that sceptre.  They’re talking, but she can’t hear them.  All she can hear is the rushing of the wind in her ears.  She knows that they can’t see her.  They never see the nameless ones.

For the first time in one of the nightmares, she’s herself.  Jeans, sneakers, glasses, woollen cap pulled down over her hair.  In her pocket is her iPod, the electronics vibrating, though there are no headphones plugged in.

For once, there is no fear, even when she turns and looks down the side of the building.  Even when the wind tugs her cap free of her hair, wraps around her wrists, tugs gently.

She wonders what it would be like to fall.  Would it be, just for a moment, like flying?

Maybe it would feel like nothing.  Maybe it would feel like an end.

She’s about to take a step forward when someone grabs her arm.  She looks down, sees long fingers, closely trimmed nails, the gold edge of a vambrace.  Smells leather and ice.

He turns her around, and she looks up into green, green eyes.  _Tall_ , she never realised how tall he was.  

Loki pulls her away from the edge, keeping her so close that she can feel his body heat through the leather he wears.  Around them, the city changes, becomes the wasteland that she walks through every day.

Everything is silent, as though the city is sleeping.  As though the city is dead.

His fingers are still around her arm, and he looks down at her, his brow furrowed.

“Who are you?” he asks.

She finds herself captivated by his lips, the sound of his voice sending s shiver down her spine.  “No one,” she says.  “I’m no one.”

 

*

 

She wakes drenched in sweat, her heart racing.

She can still hear his voice, still see his eyes.  _Seeing_ her, the way no one else ever has.

She’s scrabbling for her glasses when she realises how dark the room is.  No light from her clock, no light from her phone.  

At the window, she pulls the curtains aside.  It’s like looking out over a black ocean, as though the city has vanished.  Even the stars are gone, swallowed by a thick blanket of cloud.

The only light she can see is the A that remains on Stark Tower, lights gleaming here and there in the tower itself.  Trust Tony Stark to have power when no one else did.

“A for asshole,” she mutters, and she doesn’t know who’s she’s even talking to, Stark or herself.

She drags the blankets from the bed, wraps them around herself, sits in the window and watches the city, waiting for the light to come.  Trying to forget the nightmare, trying to forget green eyes.

 

*

 

“Miss Lewis!”

Darcy scowls.  The coffee machine is in her sights.  Her stomach twists, empty.  Someone has restocked the creamer, and there’s even tiny packets of organic sugar.  No one else but Tony Stark manages to get hold of sugar these days.

“Miss Lewis!”

She fixes a smile to her face, turns.  The man flagging her down is barely more than a boy, a too-large suit draped over his skinny frame.  His Stark ID is clipped to his collar, where no one can avoid seeing it.

“Daniel Blackwood,” he says, tapping his ID.  He extends a hand, a fat ring glinting on his pinkie.  “I don’t think we’ve formally met?”

Darcy forces herself to shake his hand, taking her hand back as soon as she can without being rude.  “Can I help you with something?”

“Well,” Daniel says,”I think it’s you who can help me, Miss Lewis.  Darcy.”

She says nothing, just lifts an eyebrow.

Daniel clears his throat.  “You just started here, right?”

She nods.  “Jane got me the job here when they closed the university.”

Daniel nods quickly, as though she’s telling him something that he already knows.  Which she probably is.  “Well, you have a new one now.”

She raises both eyebrows now.  Something wells up inside her.  “Oh?”  She fights to keep her voice even.

Behind Daniel, she sees a door open.  Tony Stark himself enters the foyer, trailed by Pepper and Jane.  They’re all talking quietly, their faces serious.  None of them pay any attention to Darcy and Daniel as they pass.  Not even Jane.

Daniel waits until the group has passed through the foyer before he continues.  “Jane Foster, hey?” he says, his voice faux casual.  “What a bitch, hey?”

Darcy blinks.  “What?”

“You know, the way she just foisted you off as soon as she could.  And taking you on just because you were the only applicant.”  Daniel shakes his head, finger tapping against his ID as though it is some secret code.  “I don’t know why you even stayed there.”

Darcy stares at him, her smile become rigid.  She was the only applicant?

“Anyway, none of that matters now,” Daniel continues without pausing.  “Because you’re getting a promotion.  Of sorts.”

Darcy is staring at the door Jane vanished through, still trying to process what Daniel has said.  “What?”

Daniel produces a folder from  underneath one arm, holds it out.  The plastic is damp.  “The good news is that you get to stay at Stark Tower.  You get your own apartment, food, everything.  On the same floor as me, come to think of it,” he adds casually.

She stares at the folder.  “The good news?  What’s the bad news?”

She knows, even before she opens the folder.  It only takes a moment to scan the first page, to thrust it back at Daniel.  “I’m not a fucking babysitter!”

Daniel blinks, but doesn’t take the folder back.  “It’s not an option, Darcy.  You’ve seen the way things are out there.  Tony’s got plans for the city.  He wants to rebuild it, bring people back.”  He speaks Stark’s first name awkwardly, puffing his chest up as he does.  “You take this job or you’re out.”

Tears are pricking at the back of Darcy’s eyes.  She wills them back.  “Maybe I should talk to Jane.”  She takes a step towards the door.

Daniel grasps her arm, in the same place Loki had grabbed her in the dream.  Daniel’s fingers press harder.  “You don’t have clearance to go there.”

He shoves the folder into her hands, then strides away, making a show of swiping his pass and going through the door.  He doesn’t look back.

Darcy stands alone in the foyer, coffee forgotten, the folder lax in her hands.  She can feel pressure between her shoulderblades, as though someone is standing behind her, watching her.

“I’m not doing it,” she says.  

She lets the folder drop, papers spilling over the floor.  Let Daniel come back and deal with it.  She buttons up her coat again, shoves her headphones in her ears and heads out of the tower, back onto the empty streets.

 

 


	3. Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this chapter longer, but then I decided bugger it, I'll put it up at this length. I'm hoping to get into a rhythm of updating once or twice a week with this.
> 
> And I have set up a [Tumblr](http://ofravenwings.tumblr.com/) for this fic and my obsession with Loki, feel free to follow it!

That night, she dreams again of the precipice.

This dream is like no other dream she has known.  There is no slow slide into sleep, no drifting slowly between the waking and dream worlds, no slow rise and fall on the dark ocean behind her eyes.  She simply lies down, closes her eyes and she is there again, standing on the edge of Stark Tower.

The ruined city is spread out before her, silent and still.  In the distance, the sky is smudged with rising smoke, grey against the white sky.  The wind rises around the tower, tugging at her hands, a mischievous spirit entreating her to dance.

She raises her hands, feels the breeze curl around her fingers, growing warmer, more solid.

When she was younger, she had believed in fairies, spending long hours searching the woods behind the family house for fairy rings.  One day, she had found a circle of mushrooms, lay down in it and waited to be taken away to the world behind the world.  She’d stayed there until well after dark.  No one had come looking for her.

She curls her fingers again, and her memory slides back further.  And it is her mother’s hands in hers, her mother’s voice whispering to her: _“Will you, won’t you, join the dance?”_

And then a scent breaks through the memory.  Leather, ice, and deep beneath, a cold thread of blood.  She feels the weight of him standing behind her, close enough that she can feel his body heat, his ragged breath against the nape of her neck.  He does nothing, says nothing, just stands there, waiting.

She squeezes her eyes shut.  Sparks fly in the darkness there, emerald green and gold and the cold blue of Arctic ice. 

He shifts his weight, leather creaking.  Is he reaching out to her?  Preparing to push her?  She doesn’t wait to find out.  She squeezes her eyes shut harder, so hard that the sparks go to darkness.  Forces the precipice away, forces _him_ away.

The scent that rises around her is dry dust, grey neglect.  She knows what she’ll see when she opens her eyes, and her stomach churns.  Still, she cannot keep herself from looking.

She stands now on solid ground, her bare feet pressed against dry dust that has never sprouted a single green leaf.  Her jeans are gone, replaced by a white smocked dress, the skirt ending high on her thighs.  She raises her fingers to the neckline, feels the embroidery there.  Small roses, pink and white, twining vines.  The last vine is unfinished, trailing thread.

Before her is the house, crouched low against a hill.  The white paint is peeling, revealing silvered wood beneath.  The few potted herbs on the porch have long gone to seed, their leaves crumbling brown at the edges.  A window is open, a breeze she cannot feel toying with the curtain.  White like her dress, and ragged at the edges, the fabric is pulled out, pushed back in, over and over.  There are spots of something on the white, something that looks like rust.

Another scent rises around her.  Copper, iron, something black and fetid beneath.  She swallows hard against nausea.

“I wasn’t here,” she says, balling her fists.  “They just told me what happened.  I was never here, I never saw any of this.  This house doesn’t even exist any more.  They burned it all down, after.”

That dark scent thickens, gathers in the back of her throat until she gags.  And still that curtain moves back and forth, back and forth, rising higher now, high enough that she can almost see inside.

Her knees buckle, and she would have fallen, but there are suddenly hands holding her up.  Leather creaks as he wraps one arm around her waist.  His other hand rests on her hip, long fingers curved against her hip, their tips brushing the bare skin of her thigh.  His skin is hot and cold at the same time, but blessedly alive, his pulse beating against her skin.

She closes her eyes again, focuses on his pulse, the meter of his breath.  There is a hitch as he breaths in, and something scrapes lightly within.  A broken rib, she thinks.

The dream shifts.

When she opens her eyes, it is to a gleaming world.  Jewel tones, gold, everything shining.  The weight of him is gone, but she still feels him there, somehow.  She shifts her weight, feels her body moving strangely around her, as though she was wearing a suit tailored for someone else.

Laughter, and then a boy runs across the room.  He is blond, shining even brighter than the gold surrounding him.  He is followed by several others, all laughing, all shining so brightly that it hurts her eyes to look upon them.

The light grows, and she feels a shadow extend across her.  His shadow, the one made from gold.  And she knows that she will never again step forth from that shadow.

_And what else to do?_   The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, a whisper that slides through her bones.  _There was nothing else to do, but to become the shadow.  Fill the spaces that he did not._

Something cold twists inside her, as though her heart is freezing.  She watches the shining ones as they retrace their steps, laughing again, and feels the cold bite deep in her soul.

 

*

 

Darcy wakes to pain.

She is twisted in her sheets, limbs splayed in strange directions, as though her bones have been broken in her sleep.  A stabbing pain comes and goes in her side, a sound coming from beneath her skin like stone grinding against stone.  Every inch of her skin feels bruised and lacerated.

It takes all of her will to move, to assure herself that there’s no way she could be so broken.  All she’s been doing is sleeping.  There was no house, there was no golden world.  It was all just a dream.

And yet she could smell leather and ice, could feel someone else’s heartbeat against her skin.

She pulls herself out of bed, untangling herself from sweat-damp sheets.  The power is still out, her clock dark.  When she looks out of the window, she sees the thin light of pre-dawn, Stark Tower’s A burning bright against the clouds.

Her eyes move down the tower, towards the place where that cell resides in the basement.  She thinks of _his_ skin against hers, and her stomach twists.  She tells herself that it’s revulsion that she feels as she goes to the bathroom to shower.  The water is cold, and by the time she emerges, she’s shivering, glad to wrap herself in layers of denim and wool, glasses and cap her armour against the world.

She opens the kitchen cupboard to discover that mice have been at work overnight.  Her backup packets of Pop Tarts have been nibbled through, the remaining pastries dotted with droppings.  The mice have even been at the wrappers of her remaining cans.  She stares at the mess for a while, then removes the last pastry from the untouched box, eats it cold.  Gathers her money, phone, iPod and taser.  The electronics are still holding a charge, but just.  If the power doesn’t come on soon…

She shoves that thought away, forces herself to go out, lock the door.  The hallway is quiet, but she hears murmurs from behind one of the locked doors as she passes.  Most of the apartments were ransacked long ago, and she supposes that it’s surprising that other squatters have taken so long to move in.  She doesn’t want to think about what it’s like in other areas, if people are starting to choose to be here.

_You choose to be here_ , her mother’s voice says in her mind.  It is the voice she remembers from her childhood, the one that used to read her stories at bedtime, soothe her when she was hurt.

Her heart twists, and she blinks away tears.  “This is my home.”

_It’s a place, Darcy.  You have no home, now.  You have no family.  You walked away from all of that._

She slams the door as she enters the stairwell.  The echoing sound is enough to drown the voice in her mind, at least.  It’s the silence that comes afterwards that’s the problem.


	4. Oubliette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's left notes and kudos! They are very, very much appreciated.

Darcy’s footsteps echo loudly in the empty streets.

She looks up at the apartment buildings she passes, eyes moving from window to window.  Movement follows her pace: a curtain twitching here, a blind there.  Are there more people hiding there now?  It’s impossible to say, since she has never looked, not since the city fell.

The church on the corner is little more than a pile of charred rubble.  She remembers all too well that night the church burned.  On a single night, all around the country, places of worship were put to the flame.  She heard stories of priests being crucified, rabbis disembowelled.  It must have taken a massive effort to synchronise the attacks, but no one had ever claimed responsibility.  Soon after, religions had started to crumble one by one, no one left to rebuild.

She pauses outside the ruins of the church.  On the sidewalk, words had been painted, worn at the edges, the red paint faded to a sickly pink.  _If these gods were real, they would have saved the world_.  Those same words had been left at each of the fires.  Darcy found it hard to argue them now, just as she did now.  How could anyone claim belief in humanity’s paper gods when real gods came from the sky, when real gods broke the world?

Around her neck she wears a thin gold chain, the tiny crucifix buried beneath her clothes, as always.  She stopped believing many years before Thor, or Loki, or any of them, but she still wears the necklace.  It is the only thing she has left that belonged to her mother.

Something stirs in the rubble, and she keeps moving, not wanting to find out what or who it was.  She walks with her head down now, only raising her eyes from the pavement when she is standing outside the corner deli.

There had been a neon sign above the entrance once, the red letters spelling out _Vinh’s_.  Someone clawed away the neon during the riots, though the shadows of the letters are still faintly visible.  The windows are boarded over, the boards covered with graffiti that creeps over the wood like vines.  The message from outside the church is here as well, along with other slogans: _We put our faith in magic and machines, and look where we are now.  Stark sux.  Where was Iron Man while my sons were dying on the front? The blood-dimmed tide is loosed…_

At the last, she pauses.  It sounds familiar, but she cannot place it.  She turns away from the window, stands before the door.  The glass has been replaced by boards here, too, apart from a small panel set with a scratched plastic mirror.  Low on the boards, there is a dark splash that she knows is blood.  She always tries not to look at that, and always fails.

She knocks on the boards, her knuckles rapping out a staccato pattern.  Waits.  She counts her heartbeats, gets to thirty-six before the door opens, just wide enough for her to slip into the darkness inside.

The door closes behind her and she blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust.  When they do, she sees the heavy military crates filling most of the space in a seemingly random pattern.  Most of them are cracked, revealing that they are empty inside.  The interior, like the exterior, looks abandoned.

Vinh stands to the side of the door, his hands folded as he waits for her to indicate that her eyes have adjusted.  She does so with a nod, and he turns and winds through the crates.  Darcy follows him with some difficulty, the spaces just barely wide enough for her to pass through.  Vinh’s tiny frame moves through the labyrinth with space to spare.

At the rear of the store, Vinh stops.  He slides a crate aside, the ropy muscles in his arm tightening, joints creaking.  Darcy knows from experience not to offer to help him.

Beneath the crate is a worn rug; rolled up, this reveals the trap door beneath.  Vinh opens this, his thin chest heaving from the effort.  Beneath is a set of stairs vanishing into darkness.  The air that flows out of the opening is damp, smells of metal.

Vinh stands aside again, allowing her to go first.  She does so, and he follows, pulling the door closed behind him.  It locks with a hollow click.

Darcy has descended these stairs many times now, but it never feels any more comfortable.  It is pitch black, and though every step is edged with a raised bar of textured metal and the wooden slats of the walls hollowed to form a hand rail, she always feels as though every step is going to pitch her forward into an abyss.

Something brushes at her waist, and she freezes, thinking that Vinh has asked her to stop.  A moment later, his slight frame collides with hers; he had been at least five steps behind her.  She shivers, murmurs apologies and descends the rest of the stairs.  At the bottom is a short corridor, a steel door at the end.  Vinh unlocks it, stands aside so she can enter first.  Locks the door behind them, fingers dancing over the electronic panel.

This place, far below street level, was once a bomb shelter, Vinh has told her.  When he purchased the store and apartment above, he knew nothing of the shelter’s existence.  He discovered it by accident, found the shelter, with its storage room beyond, empty.  Before, he used it to store excess stock.  Now it is his home.

“I don’t know how you can stand it down here all the time,” Darcy says, sitting in the threadbare chair he sets aside for customers.  The main shelter is perhaps long enough one one side for her to lie down head to heel with Vinh, the storage room twice that.  An electric bulb burns on the ceiling, white battery-operated LED lights set on either side of the entrance.

Vinh grins, revealing a gap-toothed smile, sits down in the matching chair.  He’s lost another tooth since she last saw him, the empty socket purple and inflamed.  “Safest place in the city.”

A train rumbles through the nearby subway, and the ceiling light flickers.  Darcy wonders, as she always does, who built this place, how they got permission.  She supposes that you don’t need permission if you have enough money.  Whoever they were and whatever war they were hiding from, they were gone now.  Lucky bastard.

“How are you doing, Vinh?” Darcy asks when the train has passed.

He reaches into the filing cabinet between them, removes his ledger book.  In it are records of his stock and sales.  No actual money passes hands now, but he notes it all down faithfully, trusting his customers to make good when the economy recovers, as he is certain that it will.

“I am alive, so I am good,” Vinh says, opening the book.  He removes a pencil from his pocket, licks the lead.

It is what he always says when Darcy asks him.  Behind him on the wall there are two photographs.  One, a smiling couple: a younger Vinh, his hair black and thick, a woman in his arms.  The other shows two children, their faces round, well fed.  No one looks like that now.  Not even those children.  Vinh’s wife and children had been in Vietnam, waiting to emigrate after he had his business well established.  All three perished in the war.

“Now, Miss Darcy, are you looking for anything in particular today?” Vinh asks, his tone indicating that he possesses anything that she might need.

“Well, some chocolate cake would be good.  Coffee, fresh bread.  Maybe some butter and milk, too?”  Darcy grins, and Vinh mirrors her expression.  Another of his teeth is loose; it will be gone when she sees him next.  “I do have a mouse problem.  Little guys ate all of my Pop-tarts.”

Vinh laughs, his chest rattling.  “This is why, Miss Darcy, I keep some, just for you.”  He goes into the storage room, rummages.  “My other customers, they ask and ask, but I say no, there are none left.”  He emerges with two blessedly colourful boxes.  Strawberry and frosted chocolate, the edges of the boxes frayed, as though someone had stroked them over and over.  He sets them down atop the filing cabinet, makes notes.  “As for the mice…”  He vanishes into the storage room.

From where Darcy sits, she can see one side of the shelving.  Once, those shelves had been full to groaning.  Now there are only a few scattered boxes.

Vinh returns holding a small box.  He withdraws items from it one by one, making a small flourish as he does.  “Mouse bait.  Some of that soup you like, beans, ravioli.”  He pauses at the last can.  The label is torn away, revealing dented steel.  “And…peaches.”

Darcy stares at the can.  “Peaches?”

“I set aside some, when I move down here,” Vinh says.  “For special customers.”

Darcy wants to take the can, but she makes her hands stay in her lap.  “You should keep it, Vinh.”

“No.”  He sets the can with the other items, makes notes in his ledger.  “I will order the chocolate cake for you, Miss Darcy.”  He grins, flourishes his hands again.  He cannot hide the wince as his joints lock.

Darcy forces herself to smile.  “Don’t forget the coffee.  And milk.”

Vinh presses his hands together.  “I have a good feeling, Miss Darcy.  I am thinking that the deliveries will begin again soon.  Things will get better.”

She gathers her goods, stowing the cans in the pockets of her coat, a familiar ritual.

“It will get better,” Vinh says again as he unlocks the shelter door.  “Your Mr Stark, he will make things better.  The Avengers, they defended this city once.  Without them, we would all be slaves or atoms.”

She pauses on the threshold.  “But it’s not just this city now, is it?  The last paper I saw, months ago now, they’d declared it another World War.  Too many fronts, they said, the wars all blending into each other.  And the Avengers are only a few people.”

“But what people they are,” Vinh says.  “And we have gods on our side now.”

Darcy thinks then of Loki, locked beneath Stark Tower.  No one has said why he had been sent to Earth.  She suspected that the Asgardians had problems of their own to deal with.

Vinh steps closer.  There is something black on his breath.  He touches a finger to where Darcy’s crucifix is hidden.

“You pray, Miss Darcy.  To that God, to any other.  To all of them, perhaps.  Things will get better.”

She cannot smile this time, just turns and lets him lead her back up to the street.

 

*

 

After Vinh locks the door, Darcy sags against the boarded-over windows, taking deep breaths.  There is smoke on the air, though, for once, the sky above looks clear.  

She walks quickly back to her apartment, stashing the food and scattering the mouse bait through the cupboards.  Her mother had never baited mice, had always trapped them - often catching them in her hands - and walking into the woods to set them free.

“Sorry, Mum,” Darcy says as she closes the cupboards.  “No woods here.  And it’s either the mice or me.”

After spending time in Vinh’s home, she always feels as though she is suffocating.  Checking that her taser is in her pocket, she goes back out again.  There is no sound from the neighbouring apartment where she’d heard murmurs earlier.  Still, the building doesn’t feel as empty as it had.  She shivers, quickening her pace to the stairwell, feeling as though there were people standing behind each peephole, watching her pass.

In the short time she’s been inside, the weather has turned.  Grey clouds hang low to the buildings, and a thin drizzle is falling.  Darcy pulls a woollen hat over her hair, turns up her hood.  Her coat is threadbare, and will not last the season.  She feels as though she has a lot in common with it.

She walks without thought, just needing to be outside, to be breathing air that hasn’t been cycled through a ventilation system.  She doesn’t know how Vinh stands being down there day and night, doesn’t think she could deal with even a full hour down there.

The rhythm of her feet becomes a regular beat, and the city slides away from her, memory rising instead.  In the memory, she is perhaps five or six years old, running on bare feet through the house as she searches for a place to hide from one of her brothers.  She doesn’t remember which brother she was playing the game with - maybe all of them.  She runs through rooms, choosing and discarding hiding places, until she finds the closet in the spare room.

That room is kept aside for someone, though she cannot remember who.  There is dried lavender in a vase on the windowsill, a wooden crucifix nailed to the wall.  The closet stands against the far wall, an old thing of a wood she could not name then, but now knows is mahogany.  The air inside smells like lavender, like mothballs.  She crams herself inside, pulls the door closed hard.

There is a click.

She waits.  After a while, she tries to remember if there was a click when she opened the door.  When no one comes looking, she tries to open it.  Fails.

The present day Darcy shudders, a light sweat breaking out on her skin as she walks and remembers.  Her stomach twists, as it had then.

It had felt like days, locked in the dark.  Later, her mother would tell her that it had been less than an hour.  When she had found Darcy, forced the door open, the light in the house had been the thick, slanting light of sunset.  In her memory, the hide and seek game had begun at dawn.  Even now, she doesn’t know whether to trust memory or her mother.

A sound draws her from the memory.  She freezes, pulling the taser from her pocket without thought.  

She is standing on the corner of two streets she cannot recognise, the buildings too damaged and signposts long gone.  Where the intersection had been, there is now a large crater, serrated at the edges, as though it is a mouth waiting to devour.  In the deep bottom of the hole, something dark and viscid seeps.  It makes a low, bubbling sound, not the sharp one that had drawn her from the memory.

She grows cold when it dawns on her that, lost in memory, she would have walked straight into that hole.

And then she sees him.

He stands on the other side of the crater, leaning against the remains of a post box.  He is dressed in black, though something like dark mist hangs around him, the green of malachite shot through with glimmers of gold.

Loki.

The panic comes slowly, and she claws for her phone.  In the time it takes for her to remember that there is no signal, he is gone.

 

*

 

The guard station outside the cell is filled with the sound of screaming.

Darcy freezes, her fingers clenching hard on her ID card, her heart hammering and cold sweat slicking her skin.  It takes her a moment to realise that the screaming is coming from the tinny speaker of the guard’s iPad.

He glances up from the screen, smiles apologetically when he sees her.  He switches off the iPad and the sound breaks off mid-scream.

“Sorry about that, Ms Lewis,” he says, setting the iPad aside.  “It gets boring on watch here, you know.”  He smiles again.  “You come to start your shift?”

“Shift?”  She blinks, remembers Daniel Blackwood.  “No, no.  I just need…can you let me in?  Just for a minute?”

The guard frowns, but presses the button to open the gate.  It seems to take an excruciatingly long time for it to slide open wide enough for her to step inside.

Loki sits on the floor, one leg bent, one arm pressed against the floor, eyes closed.  He appears to be in the same position he was when she last saw him.

“Hey!”  She bangs on the perspex, hard enough that she half expects it to crack.  “Hey, asshole!”

There is no response, no matter how hard she bangs, no matter how much she yells.  Finally, she turns, gestures for the guard to open the gate again.

“Is something wrong, Ms Lewis?” he asks.  He is standing just inside the gate, had been watching her, she guesses.

“I thought I saw…”  She scrapes damp hair back from her face.  “Has he moved?”

The guard looks down in what looks like a reflex.  She follows his gaze, notes for the first time that his shirt pocket is bulging, the cotton stained purple blue.  This close, she can smell the sweetness of the berries there.

She takes a step around his station, sees the half empty tray beneath the desk.  “You’ve been taking his food.”

The guard slumps.  “He’s not going to eat it.  What are they doing, giving him fresh fruit while the rest of the city is starving?  I’ve got a family, Ms Lewis.  A little girl.  She’s got vitamin deficiencies, her bones so soft they bend.  They’re just gonna throw it all in the trash, anyway.”

Darcy slumps against the desk, thinking.  “You’ve been taking his food, all this time?”

The guard nods.  His whole body is taut, every muscle and joint strained.

“He hasn’t moved?”

The guard says nothing.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about the food,” she says.  “I know what it’s like to go hungry.”

He relaxes visibly.  “Oh, thank you, Ms Lewis.  I don’t need to take it all, not if you-“  He bites off the word.

“It’s really okay,” she says.  “We can sort it out.  But Loki.  He hasn’t moved, the whole time he’s been here?”

The guard indicates the panels on his desk.  Three LCD displays, full colour images of the hallway, and two angles on the cell.  There are controls beneath each display, she assumes to pan the cameras.  One of the cameras, she suspects, could be panned far enough to look into the curtained off bathroom area, if you chose.

“Does anyone know that he hasn’t moved?”

The guard points at a stack of paper.  “I write reports, send them upstairs.  They know.”  He pauses.  “So, are you going to start your shift?”  He indicates some more papers; she recognises them as the ones that Daniel Blackwood tried to force on her.  “My little girl, she’ll be hungry, and my shift was over an hour ago.”

Darcy can’t argue with that.  Has no where else to go.  “Go,” she says.  “And make sure she gets those blueberries while they’re fresh.”

He breaks into a smile of utter relief.  “Thank you, Ms Lewis.”

“What’s her name?  What’s yours?”

“Jennie.  I’m Max.”

“Max.”  She smiles, and for the first time since the attack, it feels like a genuine smile.  “It’s nice to meet you, Max.”

Max grins, pats his pocket.  “Thank you, Ms Lewis.  You have no idea how much this means.”

She thinks of bloodstained curtains, the empty streets.  “Every little girl counts in this world.  Who knows, maybe she’ll grow up to be an Avenger or SHIELD agent?”

Max’s eyes slide to the steel gate, and his smile falters.  “I’ll be back to relieve you in twelve hours.”

He is almost out of the door when she stops him.  “Do you know why I got assigned this?  I just brought him lunch once, when the usual guy was busy.”

Max doesn’t smile now, and there’s something in his eyes that she can’t place.  “The usual guy only ever leaves the tray in here.  I guess you’re the first person who’s actually gone in there.  I haven’t even dared walk through that gate.”

He leaves her there with something like a salute.

Darcy fingers the pile of papers, stares at the monitors for a moment.  _Had_ Loki been there?  Had he saved her?

When she moves through the gate, she is aware of the smell in the room.  Like rain just about to fall, the sky electric with lightning yet to be born.

She presses on the intercom, hears the hiss of static for a moment as the channel connects.  Images flood her mind, as though a dam has been breached.  Everything she’d seen since the attack, everything she’d felt.  Her fingers moved to her pocket, curled around her taser.

“You broke our world, do you know that?”

His eyes open.  Just enough for her to see a sliver of green.  And when he speaks, his voice is less than a whisper: “I know.”

 


	5. Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for the comments and kudos and bookmarks! They keep me writing!
> 
> I was expecting to be able to update this with a chapter a week, but it seems that I cannot set this aside right now, as the plot has eaten my brain. So maybe, things going well, I might be getting into updating twice a week.
> 
> And at the moment, I'm thinking this might end up being novel length. Um.
> 
> Apologies for any random continuity errors and the like - I'm writing this very much on the fly.

Darcy freezes, her hand still pressed against the intercom.  The sound of static rises around her, fills the small hallway.

Loki is still again, sitting with that same leg crooked, same arm propped, eyes closed.  His chest barely moves at all with the tide of his breath.  He is so pale against the black of his hair and clothes, she could easily think that he wasn’t even alive.

“Loki?”  Her voice is small, that of a frightened child.

Only the static answers her.  It thickens, becomes something hot and bright: flames and the roar of the Destroyer.  Loki, it was Loki who sent that, she reminds herself.  And if Thor hadn’t gained back his powers, she and Jane and who knows who and what else would have burned.  _That_ was Loki, the man who wanted to rule, who would destroy anything and anyone to get what he wanted.  This diminished man locked in the cell, _this_ is the illusion.

She slams her free hand against the perspex, a part of her mind glad to feel that cool, electric field that runs over the plastic, keeping Loki’s powers at bay.

She yells until her throat is hoarse, dredges up every curse word she has ever heard.  Makes up some new ones.

No response.

Finally, she removes her hand from the intercom.  Her fingers are numb and cold.  She drags herself back through into the guard room, presses the button to close the gate.

And again, she freezes.  The gate control is set into a panel on the side of the desk, a red-lettered sign above it reminding her that the gate is to be closed at all times.  A small remote hangs above the button, a tag attached reading “Gate Control”.

Darcy’s legs shake as she grabs the remote, presses the button.  She steps through the gate, sliding a quick glance at Loki to ensure that he is still immobile.  One heartbeat, two, and the gate slides automatically closed.

She thumbs the remote quickly, runs back through, closes the gate again.  Her heart is hammering hard against her ribs.  The gate must have malfunctioned, that was all, she tells herself.  Or maybe she brought the remote through and forgot.  The gate couldn’t have opened itself to let her back out.

_Except for the fact that there was a sorcerer in the cell, a man who could probably open every gate and door in this building, Stark tech be damned, if he just tried._

“His powers are blocked,” she tells the empty room.  “He can’t do anything in there.  He’s locked up, imprisoned.  Safe.”

Darcy replaces the remote, sits down at the desk.  Her hands are shaking, and a headache is starting to tighten around her temples.  She rummages through the desk drawers, fingers moving through layers of what looked like at least a dozen people’s leavings.  At the very bottom, she finds a packet of aspirin, the pills half smashed to powder.  She chews two, almost welcoming the bitter taste.

She rests her forehead against the battered wood of the desk.  There are scratches all over the surface, and she wonders how many offices it had been moved through.  Probably stored away somewhere, unloved, until they needed the desk for this office.  There’s a couch, too, the cushions lumpen and the colour of wet pumice.  Hooks on the wall to hold coats.  Nothing else.  It’s the dreariest place she has ever been in.

When the pills have begun to ease the worst of the pain, she occupies herself by going through the papers left for her.  Her duties are clear: she is required to be on duty in the guard station from sunrise to sunset every day.  She is allowed breaks, but she is required to always have eyes on the camera feeds, either on her phone or laptop.  Both are required to be with her at night, the feeds active.

Laptop? Phone?  She pulls her own battered phone from her pocket, stares at it for a moment.  There’s no signal down here, of course.  She’s lucky to get a signal on the surface most days.  She is putting the phone back in her pocket when she notices the corner of a bag beneath the desk.

The black bag is emblazoned with a white Stark Industries logo.  Within she finds a ruggedised laptop and a phone, safely encased in a cover that looks both shock- and water-proof.  When she switches the phone on, she gets a signal immediately.  She grinds her teeth at that.

There’s spare batteries for both laptop and phone in the bag, as well as what looks like an electronic hotel room key.  She frowns at that, turns back to the papers.

She is expected to live in Stark Tower, an apartment set aside for her on the nineteenth floor.  A set amount of food, calculated for caloric needs and nutrition, will be supplied weekly.

In addition, in return for her work at Stark Industries, she receives a certain number of credits per week (the papers helpfully tell her that when the world economy stabilises, money will be used again).  These credits may be traded for extra food or clothing or electronics.  She scans the list supplied of items, and she swallows hard. All of the things she had joked about with Vinh were there.  Even coffee.

She closes her eyes, a memory welling: the first bitter bite of coffee in the morning. Always black, and always without sugar.  One cup to wake her up, another cup to savour.  Once upon a time, she wouldn’t even have thought about rising without the ritual, her coffeemaker always programmed to have it ready.

“Once upon a time,” she says.  “Like this is a fricking fairytale.  Like some prince is going to come and rescue you from all of this.”

Except a prince _had_ come for Jane. And another one was locked in the cell next to her.

She rubs her forehead, scanning the list again.  Hell, there were even iPods listed, and cameras. As though anyone would want to take photos of the end of the world.

Anger rises in her, sudden and hot, thinking of Vinh eking out his supplies, Max’s daughter and her bending bones.  She snatches up her new phone and scrolls through the contacts until she finds Stark’s office number.

Two rings, and someone picks up.

“Daniel Blackwood,” a familiar voice answers.

Darcy moves the phone from her ear, wondering if she got the wrong number.  Daniel’s voice comes from the speaker, louder, as though he knows what she is doing.

“You won’t get through to Stark, or even to his secretary.  Or Banner or Potts or anyone but me,” he says.

She puts the phone back to her ear.  “Then why do I even have their numbers?”

“It’s a formality, I suppose.  But there’s a chain of command, Darcy.  You report to me, and I convey any useful information upstairs.”

Something clicks.  “You’ve not sent anything upstairs, have you?”

A sharp sound comes over the line, as though Daniel is clicking his teeth together.  “That is mine to decide.”

“And someone being catatonic, not eating, not moving, for-“  Darcy shuffles through papers, and the anger twists harder in her. “For _five months?_   He hasn’t eaten anything or moved for five months?”

Fabric sighs, as if Daniel has shrugged.  “He’s being provided food.  We’re not here to spoon feed him.  The man is a war criminal.”

Darcy’s eyes move over the papers, and something else clicks.  There is no mention of any other shift on the papers.  “What’s happening to Max?”

“Who?”

“ _Max_.  The guard who was working here before me.”

“Whoever was down there, they were temporary.  They would have known that.”

Darcy thinks of Max leaving.  He had no sign of any such thing.  “You’re just going to let him go, aren’t you?”

“Despite what you might think, Miss Lewis, Mr Stark does not have access to endless resources. Only a few chosen ones are being sheltered here.”

“Chosen?  Is that what it is?”  Darcy shoves the papers into a rough stack.  “I’m not going to sit in here getting fat while the rest of the world starves.”

She can _feel_ the tooth-baring smile that Daniel is wearing.  “Well, if that’s your choice, Miss Lewis.  We are not going to-“

The line snaps and crackles, Daniel’s voice abruptly cut off.  There’s a moment of static, and then a woman’s voice comes over the line.  Darcy instantly recognises Pepper Potts.

“Miss Lewis, what is it that you want?” Pepper asks.  She sounds friendly, none of Daniel’s antagonism evident in her voice.  “And before you continue, I can assure you that we do want you working here.  Despite what Daniel Blackwood might say. Jane Foster recommended you highly.”

For a moment, Darcy is dumbstruck.  “Jane did?”  There was that childlike voice again.  She cleared her throat.  “It’s not me.  It’s Max, the guard who was working here.”

“I know who Max Browning is, Miss Lewis.”

“Do you know that he has a daughter?  That she’s sick?”

The sound of shuffling paper.  “That information isn’t in our records.”

Darcy swallows hard.  “I want…can you make sure that Max has another job?  A good one, with access to food rations?  I’m guessing that he ended up with this job because no one else would do it, and he doesn’t deserve to be kicked out of here with nothing.  I mean, I’d rather leave and let him have the job, even though he doesn’t really want to be doing it.”

When Pepper speaks again, she sounds amused.  “We can arrange for that, Miss Lewis. Anything else?”

Darcy eyes the electronic key.  “I don’t want to live in Stark Tower.  I want to stay in my apartment.”  She swallows again.  “And the food - can you give it to Max, for his daughter?  And exchange some of my credits for medicine for her, if she needs it?”

Pepper is silent for a moment.  “You’ve met Max Browning, what, two times?”

“So?  His little girl deserves a chance.  She didn’t choose to be born into this world.”

“And you?  How will you survive?”

“I’ll find a way.  I have so far.”

The silence is longer this time.  “Very well, Miss Lewis. I believe we have a deal?”

Something lifts within Darcy.  “I believe we do.”

The line goes dead.

Darcy rubs her forehead again, removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose.  Stares at the unchanging monitors.

“I guess you’re stuck with me now, then,” she says.  “And I’m stuck with you.”

 

*

 

Her shift passes in a daze of monotony.

Darcy explores the office.  There is the desk: battered wood, with the panel and electronics for the gate mechanism hastily attached.  The three drawers contain old telephone messages, pens long ago dried out, paperclips bent into shapes she cannot identify.  There is another packet of aspirin, and a handful of loose pills, pink and white and orange.  Outside is the hallway leading to the elevator, a bathroom with a single, thankfully working, stall.  In an alcove there is a filtered water fountain and a coffee machine.  She pounces on the last, but finds it empty.  Still, if she leans close enough to it, she can smell coffee, which is something.  Until she realises that she probably looks ridiculous doing so, and, knowing Stark, there were probably cameras hidden somewhere here.

The only thing that breaks the silence is the arrival of a young intern who comes by to deliver a meal tray.  More berries - strawberries this time, stew and what smells far too much like fresh bread.  She thinks that there’s even meat in the stew.  No food is delivered for her, and the smell of the food makes her stomach rumble, but she delivers the tray to Loki.  It sits, untouched, for several hours, until she takes it away.  She hesitates, then packages up the food as best as she can.  She can take it to Vinh; he will know people who need it more than her.  

She is spinning around on her chair when her new phone notifies her of sunset with a cheery chirp.  She checks the gate, the monitors, then packs up her stuff and leaves.

Outside, the city is dark, heavy cloud blocking even the light of the stars.  For the first time in a long time, the night is not silent.  In the distance, she hears singing: long, low notes that remind her of the songs her mother had always sung at church, though she can recognise none of this music.  She wonders if, the human religions, fallen, people are turning to the Asgardians for worship.  Hoping the new gods would come and rescue them.

“I don’t think you should hold out hope,” Darcy says, pulling her coat tight against the cold wind.  “They haven’t even bothered to try to rescue one of their own.  Just locked him away.”

She walks home across the bridge, her hand in her pocket the whole time, fingers curled around her taser.  She doesn’t know why she chooses to walk.  Maybe just to prove to herself that she can.

Halfway across the bridge, she turns back, looks up at Stark Tower.  Counts the floors.  On floor nineteen there is a bank of dark windows.  The key to the apartment is still tucked into her bag, along with the laptop and phone.  It would take her just as much time to turn around as it will to go back to her place.

A sudden thread of fear tightens in her, a certainty that Loki, unwatched, is up to no good.  She sets the bag down, slides the new phone out.  Opens the app that feeds the camera images to her.  Loki has not moved.

_What difference does one little girl make, when the whole world is dying?_

Darcy stiffens, that thread growing taut and cold, for all that she’s used to the echoes of her mother’s voice in her mind.  That voice will always follow her, no matter where she runs.

“It makes a difference,” she says.  The distant voices rise, hanging on a single pure note, then fade away.  Darcy picks up her bag again, though she keeps the phone out, cupped in her hand so the light from the screen is hidden, but she can still see the camera feed.  “It has to make a difference.  Otherwise, what’s the point of anything?”

 

*

 

By the time she reaches her apartment building, she is exhausted.  Even her empty stomach is forgotten now, and all she can think about is her bed, about collapsing into the nest of blankets.

She is so tired that she doesn’t notice the change in the building until she is halfway down the hallway to the apartment.

The building has power.  The bulbs in the hallway are glowing with a dim orange light, but it is light, all the same.

Just the sight of it makes her forget some of her fatigue.  She is practically dancing as she unlocks her door and enters her apartment.  Humming as she locks the door, sets down her bag.

It is only when she looks out of the window that she realises that all of the other buildings on the block, and on every block in the city she can see, are dark.  Only Stark Tower and her building have power.

“Well, shit,” she says.  “This was so not part of the deal.”

She is acutely aware of the sounds travelling through the building: doors opening and closes, snatches of voices, even a baby crying once, quickly hushed.  This place will be a beacon now, drawing in half of the city.  

Still, the electricity means that she gets to have warm soup for dinner, and the water in the bathroom is lukewarm, rather than cold.  She even gets to stash the food taken from Loki’s tray in her fridge, making a mental note to take it to Vinh as soon as possible.

She plugs in her phones to charge, as well as the laptop and her taser.  She curls up in her bed, warm and exhausted, but sleepless and on edge.  There are more noises coming from elsewhere in the building now, the sound of shouting, of screams.

The iPod and earbuds give her relief from that, at least.  She is half asleep before she remembers that even off duty, she is supposed to have the feed from the cameras running.  She drags herself out of bed and opens the laptop, angling it so she can see the screen from bed.  

She expects to slide into sleep straight away, but she keeps on drifting off, then feeling that tight fear again, opening her eyes to check that Loki hasn’t moved.

He never does, and eventually she slides into an uneasy sleep.  Even then, there is only a few moments of deep black before she slips sideways into dream.

 

*

 

In the dream, she opens her eyes to gold.

The ceiling above is made from what looks like solid gold, the metal furled and twisted into a complex, twisting pattern.  She moves, trying to see the pattern better, and realises that she is naked, lying on a large bed covered in plush gold velvet.

And she is not alone.

There is a figure standing near the door, wreathed in shadows.  And he is watching her.

“I believe you were expecting me,” he says.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Resonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you *so* much to everyone who's commented, subscribed, bookmarked and left kudos. You guys are keeping me writing this. And I have been so looking forward to writing and posting this chapter! Finally, we have some smut. Well, kind of ;) More angst, probably.
> 
> Just a warning, that there is some stuff that veers towards being non-consensual, so if that's a trigger, you may want to avoid. 
> 
> And a heads up that I have a family wedding on this weekend, so there won't be much writing time. Hoping to get the next chapter up by mid- to late next week, though.

Darcy shifts her weight on the bed, her skin sliding against silk sheets.  It feels strange when she moves, as though she is wearing someone else’s clothing, the garments too heavy for her, weighing her down.  When she moves again, she sees her reflection in a mirror across the room, and she knows why everything feels wrong.

She is not herself.

The woman reflected in the mirror is much taller.  Darcy estimates that she is probably somewhere around a foot taller than herself.  The woman’s shoulders and hips are wide, her limbs muscled.  Her skin carries the sheen of gold, and her tumble of curls are a mingle of molten gold and copper.  Her eyes are a similar tawny shade, like sunlight trapped in amber, and slightly tilted, almost catlike in appearance.

Darcy’s body moves again, and this time she is uncomfortably aware that the movements are being made without her will.  She attempts to move her arms, her legs, even a finger, but nothing happens.  She is simply a passenger, an observer.

Fragments of knowledge come to Darcy as the woman shifts again, checking the arrangement of her limbs in the mirror.  Her name is Yrsa, and she is not here because she wishes to be.  She is here because she _has_ to be.  Darcy tries to hook onto this thought, to find out why, but the thought slips away in the stream of Yrsa’s mind, uncatchable.

“I have no problem with being watched, Silvertongue,” Yrsa says.  Her voice is deep and resonant; if Darcy hadn’t caught that scrap of knowledge earlier, she would have thought those tones to be seductive.  “But lying here alone for much longer, I will grow chilled.”  Yrsa moves across the bed, reluctantly moving out of view of the mirror.  She pats the empty bed beside her.

Darcy wants to pull away, wants to close her eyes.  But Yrsa does not pull away, and Yrsa does not close her eyes, and so Darcy cannot.  She has to watch.

He moves out of the shadows, every movement hesitant.  If Darcy possessed control of Yrsa’s voice, she would have gasped.  For Loki is _young_.  He looks perhaps sixteen in human years; Yrsa’s mind gives her no knowledge on how old he really is.

He is clothed in black trousers and a green tunic, the collar trimmed with gold.  His hair is cropped short, curling at his temples and the nape of his neck.  It suits him ill so short, throwing the bones of his face into stark relief.  In his green eyes Darcy sees anticipation and anxiety.  He blinks, and for a heartbeat, there is another emotion there.  Again, Darcy would have gasped, had she been able, for it is _fear_ she sees there.

In all of the footage she has seen, in everything she has been told, she associates Loki with many emotions.  Triumph, anger, spite.  But never fear.  She didn’t even think it was something he was capable of feeling.

Loki’s feet are bare, making him appear strangely vulnerable, for all that Yrsa is naked.  As he walks to the bed, his hands are balled into fists, his knuckles bloodless.

Yrsa rolls her eyes.  Darcy immediately wishes that she could make the woman slap herself.  Couldn’t she see how afraid, how nervous Loki was?  It seems not, for Yrsa’s lips curl back from her teeth in something almost, but not quite, a smile.

“Take off your clothes,” Yrsa says.  There is nothing seductive in the command.

She doesn’t even do Loki the courtesy of watching him disrobe.  Instead, she looks down at her own long body, traces the filigree of a bracelet she wears around one wrist.  It is a remarkably beautiful thing, evoking vines and flowers growing towards the sun.

It is only when Loki clears his throat that Yrsa looks up.  She says nothing, just lifts an eyebrow, her lips curling again.

Darcy wants again to make the woman slap herself.  Wants to make her beat her own face bloody for the way she looks at Loki.  

He stands there naked, hands fisted at his sides, his clothing neatly folded and set aside on a table.  He is as tall as Yrsa, but he is pallid, moonlight in contrast to her sun-burnished skin.  He is not as muscled as Yrsa, but there is a beauty to him, a litheness to his muscles that speak of a different kind of strength.  A kind of strength that Yrsa will not, or cannot, see.

Yrsa sighs and lies back, her thighs parted.  She says nothing, just stares at the ceiling.  In her peripheral vision, Darcy watches Loki crawl onto the bed.  He sits back on his heels, flicking his gaze from her face to her breasts, to her belly, her thighs.  He takes quick, almost shy glances, but Darcy can see the hunger, the longing in his eyes.

“Well, then?”  Yrsa asks, stretching her arms out across the bed.  “Looking accomplishes nothing, Silvertongue.  Thor was never so weak.”

He winces at that, as though he has been dealt a physical blow.  Yrsa’s mind supplies Darcy with an image of Thor naked beneath her, muscles straining as he thrust deep inside her.  Darcy feels her phantom stomach contract.  This woman had been with Thor, and now comes to Loki?  What was happening here?

Loki closes his eyes, swallowing heavily.  When he opens his eyes again, he grins, but Darcy can see the effort it costs him.  It is a mask, that grin, it is a wall behind which he hides.

“Silvertongue, you call me?” he asks.  He’s trying for a casual tone, but his voice shakes ever so slightly.  “Care to discover why I am called so?”

He moves to cover Yrsa’s body with his own.  Yrsa does not move.  Within, Darcy is painfully aware how much smaller than the Asgardian woman Loki is.  He matches her in height, but he is much leaner, his frame more fine-boned.  She is also aware of how surprisingly soft his skin is, a stark and heady contrast to the hard ridges of muscle beneath.  Strangely, he is also _cold_ , as though he has just walked in from the heart of winter.

Yrsa, too, feels that cold, for she flinches and shudders, her skin rising in waves of gooseflesh.

Loki pulls back, his brows drawing together for a moment.  Yrsa stills, fixing him with a hard look, and then his mask is in place again.

Yrsa does nothing, simply lies there, hands outflung towards the sides of the bed.  And Darcy, against everything she knows of Loki, wants more than anything suddenly to make this woman lift her hands, to _hold_ this poor boy.  Give him some sign that he is wanted, that he is not utterly wanting.

She can do nothing, and so Yrsa simply lies there as Loki descends again, this time for a kiss.  He is clearly untutored, but fervent.  Darcy can feel desire coiled tightly in him, even for this woman who lies completely unresponsive beneath him.  It quivers in every part of him, like a storm about to break.

And Darcy realises, as Loki’s mouth moves to Yrsa’s neck, her breasts and belly, that he has no idea that Yrsa does not want to be here.  Darcy wants to look away, and this time, at least, Yrsa complies, her head turning to the side to admire her bracelet.  

Darcy cannot see Loki, but she can still feel his hands moving against Yrsa’s body.  His fingers are trembling, his movements against Yrsa’s skin stuttering, lingering nowhere.  Darcy would almost have thought him to be as unwilling as Yrsa, but then he shifts, and she feels the hard evidence of his desire against Yrsa’s lax thigh.

Yrsa heaves a sigh, turns her gaze away from her bracelet.  “Silvertongue, let this be done.”

There are bright spots of red high on Loki’s cheeks as he rises to cover Yrsa again.  His breath comes fast, shuddering in and out of him.  In contrast, Yrsa’s breathing has, if anything, slowed.  

A fragment of the woman’s thoughts come to Darcy: _He will last for the count of three or four, if that._   _Green boy._

Darcy wants to hit her again as Loki moves his hips, prods at her, trying and failing to gain entry.  Finally, Yrsa moves, grasping him in her hand and pulling him roughly into her.  She is dry, and it pains her, but she shows no evidence of this to Loki. 

Yrsa’s eyes focus on the ceiling as Loki moves in her, allowing Darcy only snatches of Loki’s face.  His eyes are closed, his lips parted and flushed.  His breath comes hot and ragged against Yrsa’s ear.

He is, to Darcy’s utter shock, _beautiful_.

Yrsa sees nothing of the kind.  She doesn’t feel hatred or revulsion for Loki. There is just utter indifference.

As Loki’s thrusts grow faster, Yrsa again turns her gaze to her bracelet again.  As her head moves, Darcy sees Loki’s face in full.  His eyes are open now, the green almost drowned by the black of his pupils.  There is an expression of absolute wonder in those eyes, and it breaks Darcy’s heart to know that Yrsa feels absolutely nothing.

Loki thrusts once, twice more, and his body tightens, drawn taut as a bow.  He makes no sound apart from an outrushing of breath, like a sigh.

For a moment, both of them are still, and then Loki leans down, clumsily kissing Yrsa again.  He reaches out to take her hand, and his fingers brush against the bracelet.

Something shudders through the room as his fingers touch the metal.  Yrsa moves then, pulling herself out from beneath Loki.  She dresses quickly, ignoring his seed spilling onto her thighs.  Only when she has laced her bodice does she turn back to him.

He is kneeling on the bed, still naked.  All of the vulnerability Darcy had seen in him is gone, his face set in hard lines.

“That _bauble_ ,” he says, gesturing to the bracelet. His voice is as cold as his eyes.  “It was given to you by my father.”

Yrsa pulls herself up to her full height, looks down at him.  “It is a lovely thing, is it not?”

“It is a lovely _bribe_ , is it not?”  Loki stands, makes a gesture with his hand.  A blink, and he is dressed, his hair slicked back.  “And who is the spell contained in that trinket intended for, lovely Yrsa?  Not I, that much is certain.”  He tilts his head to one side, considering.  “My brother, perhaps?  Do you fancy yourself a princess?”

“And why not?” Yrsa counters.  “It is a small price, to lie with one such as you, in return for a crown.”

Loki’s eyes grow harder still, until they appear as chips of emerald ice.  Darcy sees that, for all his anger, he has not truly connected things until this moment.  “My father sends me a whore?”

“None else would have you.”  Yrsa crosses to the mirror, runs her fingers through her hair.  Twists a strand across her forehead, as though contemplating how a circlet would look there.  “You do not compare to your brother.  In any fashion.”

Inside Yrsa, Darcy cringes.  Behind Loki’s cold mask, she can see how each word fractures him, creates a weak place that will crack and crack until there is nothing of that vulnerable boy left.  Until all that remained was the mask.

“And, Silvertongue,” Yrsa continues, turning from the mirror. “I think perhaps that tongue of yours would be better suited to-“

That was _enough_.  Darcy could see what Yrsa was going to say next, and she can stand no more.  For all that she knows that he will grow to become the man responsible for breaking the world, the boy standing here before her was not that man yet.

Darcy does not know how she does it, but she stills Yrsa’s tongue.  Lifts Yrsa’s free hand, closes it, hard, around the bracelet.  She can feel the spell inside the metal, humming like a trapped insect.  She focuses, again not knowing how, and crushes the gold against Yrsa’s skin.  The metal threads snap and warp, and she presses harder, the spell buzzing against her fingers.  Finally, it gives way, the spell breaking, magic rising like coloured smoke in the air. 

Exhausted, Darcy lets Yrsa’s hands fall to her sides, but she does not allow the woman to move, or to speak again.  Enough damage has been done.

Loki’s eyes miss none of this, narrowing as Yrsa broke off mid-sentence, watching closely as the bracelet is destroyed.

“This is not how it happened,” he mutters.

He stalks to the bed, drags his fingers across the wooden frame, picks up a pinch of the silk sheets.  Greenish light gathers around his fingers, and the silk becomes a liquid, dripping through his fingers.

“Well, well,” he says.

As he turns, golden light gathers around him.  When he faces Darcy/Yrsa fully again, he is the Loki that Darcy has seen in the news footage.  Older, harder, his eyes bruised, body encased in leather and metal.  His horned helmet gathers light into itself, sharpening the illumination until it seems a weapon itself.

He stalks over to Darcy/Yrsa, his movements those of a predator, his eyes piercing her, holding her to the spot.  Darcy feels the cold menace emanating from him.  Even Yrsa, trapped in her body, quakes.

“Now,” Loki says.  He moves closer, leans close to peer into Yrsa’s eyes.  The horns of his helmet frame her face, trap her.  “Who are you, to cross into a dream like this?  Not Yrsa, that much is certain.”  He leans closer still, and she can smell the leather and ice of him.  He lifts a hand, taps a finger once against her forehead.  “Who watches from behind those eyes?”

A spot of cold blooms on Yrsa’s skin where he touched her, spreads fingers of frost across her face.  

Loki smiles coldly, then moves back.  He reclines on the bed as though it is a throne, long legs crossed before him as he waits for his magic to do its work.  He looks almost bored, but he does not look away.

Slowly, Yrsa’s form freezes around Darcy, the colour fading from her flesh until Darcy stands trapped in ice.  Her vision is distorted by the ice covering her eyes, her breath trapped in her lungs.

She wants to close her eyes. She cannot.

She wants to run.  She cannot.

She just wants to _breathe_.

Loki has not moved, just sits there, watching.  Darcy thinks frantically.  Notes, finally, what Loki said.  This is a dream.  Not real.

She focuses.  Thinks of sunlight, of flame, of _heat_.

And the ice melts away.

She collapses to the ground, water cascading around her, salt on her lips.  She is soaked through, her hair bedraggled, but she is thankfully dressed in jeans and a loose shirt.  Strangely, she is still wearing Yrsa’s bracelet, the gold twisted against her skin.

“Okay, brain,” she says, focusing on the wet carpet beneath her feet.  “Time to wake up now.”

Nothing happens.

She grits her teeth.  Pinches her arm.  “C’mon, I melted that ice, didn’t I?  Just a little bit more.”  She pinches again, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.  “Make the carpet ago away.”

The carpet vanishes, and she is suspended over nothing.  A spark of triumph blossoms in her.  It is just a dream, and she can wake up.

“Right,” she says, closing her eyes.  “Now the bedroom, and everything it contains.  When I open my eyes, I’ll be alone, and then I’ll wake up.  And by the way, brain, can we never order up a freaky dream like that again, please?  I’ll give you as many donuts as you want.  I bet Stark has donuts stashed away somewhere.”

She opens her eyes.  The bed is gone.  The bedroom is gone.

Loki is still there.

He sits on the darkness as he had on the bed, but now he is bending forward, hands on his knees.  He is watching her, curious.

“You should not be able to make changes in my dream,” he says.

“Pretty sure it’s my dream, buddy,” Darcy says.

He raises one eyebrow.  “Oh?”  He unfolds himself, rising in one smooth motion to his feet.  One step, two, and then is standing over her, the leather and ice scent of him wrapping around her.  “Then why are you dreaming of _me_?”

_Well, shit._   Darcy has no answer for that.  “Maybe I’ve got some kind of brain fever?”

He laughs at that, his eyes raking her up and down.  His tongue comes out to moisten his lips.

He grins then, moving suddenly, leather creaking as his arm wraps around her waist, pulling her body up against him.

“Little mortal, dreaming of your god?” he asks.  He shifts, and she can feel his hardness pressing against her.  A strange mixture of heat and chill comes from him.  “Enjoy that little scene, did you?”

His hand slides lower, cups her hip, and then he is lifting her thigh to his waist, pressing himself directly against her, his hips rocking against her in a hypnotic rhythm.  The whole time his eyes hold hers, and she cannot look away.

And Darcy wants to look away.  Wants to grab onto whatever it was that allowed her to control the dream, because he is moving again, grinning as he lines up the head of him with her clit, his hips still moving in that rhythm.  And _dammit_ , her body is responding to him, her breath coming fast and hard.

“Is this what you want?” Loki asks.  His free hand slides beneath her shirt, slides up her ribs to cup her breast, thumb rubbing circles around her nipple.  He is not grinning now, and his eyes are hard.  His hips move faster.  “This?”

Darcy looks at him, and she remembers the boy hiding in the shadows, the things that Yrsa said to him.  And then she is moving, lifting her hand to cup her cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

Loki’s armour melts away, and he is stumbling back from her, dressed in the black shirt and trousers he wears in the cell beneath Stark Tower.  The clothing hands loose on his frame.

“Who are you?” he asks.  His voice is wavering, uncertain.

Darcy fights to stop her body curving towards his, to keep her hips from moving in the rhythm he set.  There is a low, dull ache between her thighs.  His eyes have released her now, and she shifts her weight, acutely aware of the seam of her jeans pressing against her.

“Darcy Lewis,” she says.

Loki’s eyebrows draw together.  “ _What_ are you?”

“Political science major?”  She laughs; it sounds hollow.  “Well, not now.  I guess now I’m nobody.”

Loki’s eyes flick sharply to hers.  “You are nobody?  Standing on the edge of Stark’s tower?”

Darcy feels as though she has been speared through with ice.  “That was a dream.”

“You believed this a dream, too, Darcy Lewis.”

Darcy moves back, shaking her head.  “No.  No, I am _not_ doing this.”  She presses her fists to her temples, hard enough that she hears the bones creak.  “Wake up, Darcy.  Wake up, wake up!”

“That will not accomplish anything, Darcy Lewis.”

Darcy turns away.  His words have triggered a memory.  “If you fall in a dream, you usually wake up with a start, right?” she asks.  “You _wake up_.”

“Darcy-“

Darcy closes her eyes, focuses.  Loki is still talking, but she tunes his voice out.  And when she opens her eyes, they are standing on the top of Stark Tower, the cold wind whipping around them.  She is standing at the precipice, Loki several steps behind her.

She hears him begin to move, but she is faster.

She jumps.

Loki’s fingers close around her wrist, and as she falls, she turns so she is facing him.  Some emotion she cannot place crosses his face, and she sees that fragile boy again.  For a moment, she is drowning in his eyes, and she wants nothing more than to reach up, to let him pull her back up.

The golden bracelet is caught between them, the metal biting into her skin.  It grows cold, and she feels the threads of gold begin to snap one by one.

Loki’s eyes widen, and then he is losing his grip on her wrist.

And she is falling, down and down and down…

 

*

 

Darcy wakes chilled to the bone, shivering so hard that her teeth clatter together, bone rattling against bone.  It takes her a long time to realise that she is in her bed, in her apartment.  That she isn’t falling.

When she closes her eyes, she can see Loki’s face, the fear in his eyes as she begins to slip from his grasp.

She pulls the blankets up around her, wraps her arms around her knees.  Winces as pain flares in her wrist.

The skin there has been seared - no, it has been _branded_.  Etched there is a delicate pattern like creeping vines.  The same pattern as the bracelet Yrsa had worn in her dream.

She is still staring at the brand when there is movement in the corner of her eye.

Her new laptop is still running, though the screensaver has dimmed the image.  Darcy’s hand shakes as she reaches out and touches a key to illuminate it fully.

The feed from the cell beneath Stark Tower is running, the image slightly jerky, glitching over whatever connection its running over.

Loki is awake.  Awake and staring directly at the camera, one hand slightly outstretched, as though he is reaching for something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you *so* much for everyone who's commented and left kudos or subscribed or bookmarked this. This is just pure fun to write, and I am so glad that people are enjoying the fic - especially the last chapter, which I was dying to write and upload.
> 
> This is a quieter chapter, but it is leading up to some bad, bad things. And angst. And pain.

Darcy runs.

She keeps her Stark phone in hand as she moves through the streets.  The feed from the cameras in Loki’s cell is broken up, eaten by static.  She catches occasional glimpses of the furniture, of the floor and ceiling, but she does not see Loki.  It is impossible for her to tell what is happening in the cell.  If he has broken out.

The city around her is completely silent, the only sound the uneven echo of her boots against pavement.  A part of her mind wonders at that: New York, the city that never sleeps, silent as the dead.  That same part of her wants to stop, to glory in the brightness of the stars above.  It’s almost like home, without the city lights bleeding into the sky and blotting out the night.

She keeps running, glancing down at the phone every few seconds.  She ignores the heaving of her breath, the sweat sliding down her spine.  Ignores, too, the rush of adrenaline.  There is something freeing about this, running through the empty city.  It is the first time since the attack that she’s gone out at night alone.

Finally, she reaches the tower.  Outside the main entrance, she doubles over, gasping for breath.  The foyer and tower are dark, the only lights a faint glow on the topmost floor.  Probably Stark working on something, she assumes.  

“You’d better be working on something that’ll fix the world,” she mutters through gasps.

Probably not, she adds silently.  The very existence of Stark’s Iron Man suit was one of the factors that had led to the first series of wars.  Then, and now, it reminds Darcy of a school playground, the way the nations fight.  You have a shiny toy, I want it, no, I want to make one bigger and better than yours so I can destroy your toy.  And so on and so on, until we all fall down dead, and the victor gets to rule a pile of ash.

“It’s okay for you, though, isn’t it, Stark?” Darcy asks, digging in her pocket for her security pass.  “You get to live safe in your tower while the rest of us live with the shit that you began.”

When her breathing has finally settled down, she moves around to one of the side entrances.  During the day, there is always a guard here to check her ID and buzz her in.  This is the first time she has been here at night, and the guard station is empty.  There is an ID scanner next to the door, and a camera blinks its red light at her above it.  She guesses that J.A.R.V.I.S. watches the entrances at night.  She suppresses the urge to wave to the camera as she scans her pass.  A moment, and the LED blinks green.

It’s cool inside, and the lights flicker on as she steps over the threshold, the door closing behind her.  The lights are set to half illumination, a warm amber light that follows her as she walks, lights flicking on and off as she moves down the corridors.  She keeps checking her phone, but all the feed shows now is static.

She is in elevator before she realises why her footsteps sound uneven.  Though she’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt, the boots she had fished from the wardrobe were mismatched.  One was black, the other red, their heels mismatched in height.

“Classy, Darce,” she says to the boots.  “Real classy.”

Though, she realises, as the elevator dings and she gets out, she also didn’t brush her hair or do anything but shove her glasses on her face.  She probably looks _amazing_ , and there will be guards and who knows who else here, now that Loki has woken up.  Probably Pepper, she thinks sourly, as she scans her pass outside the guard room.  Who probably sleeps in a suit with her hair in a French twist.

At least this means that she’ll probably be off guard duty.  An awake Loki would take far more than her to watch him.

To her surprise, the guard room is empty.  It is also _cold_ , the sweat on her skin turning to ice.  She pulls her coat closed, but it does little to stop the shivering that grips her.

The only light in the room comes from one of the monitors, currently displaying a rotating screen saver of the Stark logo.

Her shivering intensifies as she moved around, presses a key to activate the monitor.  A moment of black, and then the feed from the cameras comes up.

Loki is sitting in the same position he seems to have always been in.  One leg outstretched, one arm propped on that knee.  Eyes closed.

She scrolls back through the stored feed.  He hasn’t moved all night.

It only takes her a second to slam her hand down on the gate control, tumble through into the hallway outside the cell.

The lights blind her for a moment, and she blinks frantically until her eyes adjust.  When they do, she turns away, slumps against the perspex wall.  Something tingles across her skin from the contact - part of whatever spell keeps Loki’s magic leashed, she supposed.

Loki hasn’t moved. And yet she _saw_ him on her laptop.  Standing up, reaching out.

She presses the heels of her hands against her temples.  Is she going crazy?

Dreaming of Loki would probably be enough to confirm that hypothesis, she thinks.  Not to mention the kind of dream she had.  Even the memory brings a heavy pulsing between her legs.

She is at the closed gate before she realises that she left the remote on the desk in the guard room.  She bangs a fist against the gate, succeeds in nothing but gaining a bruised hand.

She sinks to the floor, her back to the gate.  From here, she can see only a narrow slice of the cell: one chair, the edge of the table.  Do they leave the lights on all the time, she wonders?  She’s pretty certain that’s actually a torture method.  Maybe that’s the point.

Her phone is still in her pocket, at least.  She has the screen activated and is scrolling down her contacts before she remembers what Daniel Blackwood told her.  All of her calls would be routed through him.  And she absolutely does _not_ want to have to call him to come and save her from her own stupidity.

According to the clock on her phone, it’s just past 3am.  At 7am, someone will come by with Loki’s food tray, and they will let her out.  All she has to do is wait.

She slides further down, pulling her coat around herself as tightly as she can.  She curls her legs up to her chest, locks her hands around her knees.  Suddenly, she’s exhausted, and very much reminded of the fact that she should be at home sleeping right now.  She is freezing, her shivering slowing, then vanishing altogether.  

_When you stop shivering, that’s when the danger of hypothermia sets in._   It’s an echo of her mother’s voice, of course.  Who else?  Her mother’s memory would probably even harp at her when she was on her deathbed.

She is sliding into something deeper than sleep when the gate slides open.

The air that rushes in from the guard room feels _warm_ , which scares her, because she remembers how cold _that_ had felt when she had come in.  

What scares her more is that, when she rolls over, she sees that there is no one in the guard room.

She stares into the empty room.  A tingling warmth moves against the skin between her shoulder blades, flowing down her arms to wrap around her wrists.  She smiles, still half dazed from the cold, because it feels almost as though someone is cradling her.  A deep ache slides through her, and the smile dies as she remembers how long it has been since someone actually did hold her.

The warmth continues to move through her, her head clearing and her pulse increasing in speed.  She begins to shiver again, and this time it is only partially due to the chill.

_Someone_ opened that gate.

And suddenly, she knows that when she turns, he will be behind her, awake.

She feels the ghost impressions of his hands, his body, against hers, and her breath comes fast and uneven as she turns.

He has not moved.

She exhales sharply, the sound something like a laugh, something like a sob.

The red LEDs on the cameras blink, and she laughs again.  J.A.R.V.I.S., of course.  There’s probably some failsafe system making sure that idiots like her don’t get locked inside.

_And what about that dream?  About the fact that you saw him awake?_

Darcy goes into the guard room; the gate closes behind her.  “It was just a dream.  Stress, maybe just the biological fact that I haven’t gotten laid in far too long.  Hormones, all that good stuff.”

_What about the scar?_

Her heart pounds as she pulls back the sleeve of her coat.  The skin there is smooth and unscarred.  She holds it up to the empty room.

“See?  Just a dream.”

She sinks down into the chair at the desk. According to the computer screen, it’s coming up on 5am.  Somewhere between too late to sleep and too early to begin her shift.  She sighs, moves to the couch, lies down.  It’s lumpy, and she longs for her bed, but it’s better than the floor.

_Better than where Loki is sitting._

Darcy rolls over, presses a hand to her ear, as if that could silence the voice.  “The idiot has got a bed, he just chooses not to use it.  It’s not my problem what he chooses to do.”

The voice, for once, does not answer.

 

#

 

Darcy yawns as she slumps down the hallway of her building.  Her shift passed with nothing to report, apart from her bone-deep desire for coffee.  She’d even caught herself contemplating taking the coffee maker apart to see if there were any fragments of grounds caught in the piping.

Her pockets, at least, were heavy with packets of food that she had wrapped up from Loki’s untouched trays.  Her own stomach had cramped as she had portioned out the food, but stubbornness had kept her from eating any of it herself.  Other people needed it more, she had reminded herself over and over.  And she still had food at home.  Pop-tarts, even.

She yawns again as she reaches her apartment door, sliding a hand into her pocket for her keys.  All she wants right now is a shower, some food, and bed.  Her eyes are watering, and it takes her a moment to register that the door is standing wide open.

She slides her other hand into her pocket for her taser.  It isn’t there.

She half-stumbles, half-runs into the apartment.  All of the rooms are empty of intruders.  It doesn’t take her long to tally what’s missing.  All of her food stash, including the parcels she had set aside for Vinh.  Even the rat bait is gone.  

Also missing is her iPod, her taser, her old phone.  Most of her clothes, including her warm coat, her boots.  Someone has neatly lined up the mates to the mismatched pair that she’s still wearing, and that makes her laugh.

The Stark laptop is still there.  It’s closed, a series of what look like armoured plates closed over it.  She touches one softly, and the plates recede, sliding back into hidden compartments.  Some kind of tech that recognises her, she thinks.  She wonders what it did to the person who tried to steal it.  There is a scorch mark on the desk that she doesn’t want to think about.

A quick examination of the door reveals that none of the locks have been forced.  She is forced to conclude that, in her haste to get to Stark tower, she simply left the door open or unlocked.

Though she doesn’t want to, she turns on the feed from the cameras in Loki’s cell.  The bastard is still just sitting there doing nothing.  She stares at him, rubbing her wrist - the one that was scarred in her dream - as though she can just will him to wake up.  Nothing happens, of course, the bastard stays sleeping, or comatose, or catatonic, or whatever it was.

Oddly, someone has left an old iPod next to the laptop.  An exchange for what they took?  She picks up the iPod gingerly.  It is battered and beaten, the screen so scratched that it is barely readable.  

“Not really a fair trade,” Darcy mutters.

But she can’t help herself.  She rummages in the drawers until she finds an old pair of ear buds, discarded because one of the tiny speakers had taken to hissing static along with music.  She plugs them in, turns on the iPod. Discovers quickly that there is only one song on there.  Classical, and maddeningly familiar.  She squints at the screen until she is able to make out the title: the _Adagio Sostenuto_ from Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_.

Her mother had liked to listen to the _Moonlight Sonata_ , when things were better.

Darcy sinks to the floor, presses her forehead to her knees.  The door is still wide open, but she doesn’t care.  She lets the music fill her, each note sinking down into the abyss within.

 

 

 


	8. Awaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *stares at the 100 kudos a bit*
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments, subscribed or bookmarked. You guys are awesome and you're the reason why I'm compelled to update so frequently. That, and the fact that this story has planted itself firmly in my head.

“We thought you’d left.”

Darcy starts, pulling the earbuds from her ears.  They fall to the floor, _Moonlight Sonata_ continuing, tinny and thin.

There is a girl standing in the doorway.  She is tall, easily six inches taller than Darcy, her body thin to the point of gauntness.  Her skin is pale, her dark hair cropped unevenly; several places close enough to reveal the bare curve of naked scalp.  She is wearing a skirt made from scraps of coloured fabric over torn black leggings.  She is also wearing one of Darcy’s sweaters.  It is a red and green one that Darcy’s mother gave her the Christmas before she moved away to college.  It was knitted from cheap wool, and had always itched at the collar.

The girl touches a thin hand to the locks on the inside of the door.  Her nails are bitten short, her cuticles gnawed and pocked with scabs.  “It’s like a code,” she says.  “You leave the door open at night, you’ve left the city. Whatever you’ve left behind is free for the taking.”

Darcy hauls herself up from the floor.  Her joints are stiff, and she wonders how long she was sitting there, the song repeating.  She glances at the Stark laptop long enough to see that Loki is still sitting on the floor of his cell, then closes the computer.

“Ozy tried to take that, too,” the girl says.  “That case, it damn near took his hand off.  Should have heard him scream.”  She grins, the expression dying as she glances down the hallway.

Darcy shoves back her tangled hair, straightens her glasses.  She would kill for a coffee right now, anything to jumpstart her foggy mind.  “You took my things?” she asks, finally.

The girl shrugs her shoulders.  The movement makes Darcy realise that the girl has something looped around both shoulders - a scarf, maybe.  “Ozy and his boys.  They claimed this building.  Right lucky, too, they only lost a few lads in the fighting.  But it’s ours now.  Power and hot water and everything.”  She points to the iPod on the floor, the earbuds still leaking music.  “That was me leaving that.  I figured that someone who loves music so much ought to have something, right?”

“So you thought I was gone, but you left that anyway?”

The girl shifts her weight from one leg to the other.  Her bones shift and slide beneath her skin.  “Ozy was the one who took everything, not me.  No would leave fresh food behind.”  The girl touches a finger to her lips.  “The _smell_ of it.  I’d forgotten how bright things can smell.”

Darcy knows that she should feel angry at this girl, but she just feels something like resignation.  Everyone is starving.  Including her, now.

“I’m Sif, by the way,” the girl says.

“Sif?”

The girl shifts her weight again.  “You know?  The goddess?  It’s part of Ozy’s thing.  Initiation.  We all get to claim new names - god and goddesses, claim our power.”

Darcy pushes back her hair again, wincing as her fingers catch in tangles.  “You realise that Sif is a real person, right?  An alien, not a goddess?  People just thought that she was.  Sif, and Odin, and Thor, and…”  She can’t bring herself to say his name.  Even the thought of him brings his ghost touch on her skin, the memory of his eyes burning into her.  _It was just a dream,_ she tells herself.  And _God_ , why was she even dreaming of him like that, anyway?  The guy was and is a monster.  

She realises that she’s rubbing at her wrist, the one that had been scarred in the dream.  She forces her hands down to her sides, aware that the girl is still staring at her.

“What’s your real name?” Darcy asks.  “The one you had before…Ozy?”

“Ozymandias,” the girl says.  She draws herself up as she speaks the name, her thin frame fairly vibrating with pride.  “He says that we’re not supposed to use those names any more.  That they just tie us to the old world.”

“Ozymandias?  He realises that’s not a god, right?  It’s a poem.  And a comic book villain, or hero.  I don’t remember which.”

“If he says it’s a god name, then it is.”  The girl taps her long fingers against the locks on the door.  “Bethany,” she adds quietly.  “My name was Bethany.  Beth.  For Beth, in _Little Women_.”

Darcy smiles then.  “I used to love that book.  Though I always liked Jo best.”  She holds out her hand.  “It’s nice to meet you, Beth.  I’m Darcy.”

Beth smiles, a genuine expression, though she doesn’t take Darcy’s hand.  “Me, too.  I used to think that maybe I’d be a writer like her.  But as it turns out, it’s pretty hard to be a writer when you can barely read.  Dyslexia.”  She shrugs.  “None of it matters now, though.”  She chews her lip.  “Why are you being so nice to me?”  She plucks at her sweater.  “We took your stuff.”

“Well, from the sounds of it, it was Ozy who took it all.  And unless I’m mistaken, you didn’t get to eat any of that food, did you?”

Beth wraps her arms around herself, glances down the hallway again.  Gives a minute nod, barely a movement at all.

“You can come in, you know?” Darcy says.  “I mean, you already have once.  Close the door.”

Beth takes a hesitant step inside.  Another.  When she turns to close the door, Darcy sees what she has looped around her shoulders.  It’s a long scarf, and wrapped up in it is a baby, an infant so small it looks little more than a doll.  It’s sleeping peacefully, one tiny hand curled into the back of Beth’s sweater.

Beth smiles.  “Isn’t he cool?” she asks.  “One of Ozy’s girls, Morrigan, she taught me the wrapping thing.  She says she wore all her kids like this all the time, and they slept and slept.  This is the first time Ravi has slept in days.”

“Ravi?”

“It’s kind of Ozy’s thing.  The kids born now are going to be the first of a new generation,” Beth says.  “They’re the ones who’ll bring the planet back to what it’s supposed to be.  You know, harmony and peace and all of that.  None of the wars, the weapons.”  Beth adjusts one of the straps around her shoulders.  “All of the kids, they’re being named after sun gods and goddesses.  Ozy has this long list of them, and we get to pick what names we want.  He has most of the good ones set aside for his own kids, of course.  But Ravi’s fine.  He’s the Hindu sun god.”

“Hindu?  Are you Hindu?”

Beth makes a snorting noise.  “Hardly.  My mother was Jewish, I think.”

“Isn’t that a bit…wrong, taking a name from another religion?”

“Ozy says that it doesn’t matter now.  Besides, it’s not like the religions even exist any more.”  Beth is grinning again, and Darcy recognises the light in her eyes.  It’s worship, absolute and blind worship.  Beth is so caught up in it that she’s half dancing, half jiggling from side to side.  The movement wakes Ravi, who begins to wail, the sound extraordinarily loud for such a tiny baby.

“Shit!”  Beth unwraps the scarf, brings Ravi around to her front.

Unselfconscious, she goes to Darcy’s couch and plumps herself down, pulling up her sweater in the same movement.  She wears nothing beneath, revealing her sunken chest and prominent ribs.  She presses Ravi to her breast.  He latches, sucks several times, then pops off and wails, his cries even louder now.  Beth slides her finger into his mouth, and he sucks, still whimpering.

“Sorry,” Beth says.  “I keep trying to feed him, but I think it’s all gone.”  There is a deep line between her plucked eyebrows now.  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Darcy asks.

Beth lifts a shoulder; it’s not even a shrug.  “A few days, maybe.  I’m not hungry, though.”

Darcy’s pockets still hold the food that she lifted from Loki’s tray the previous day.  A bread roll, stale now, an orange and some crackers.  It’s not much, but when she hands it to Beth, the girl’s eyes grow large.

“What about you?” Beth asks, her eyes on the food. “Ozy took everything else.”

Darcy’s stomach contracts painfully, but she makes herself smile.  “I’m fine.  I just ate.”

Beth shifts Ravi to one arm, rocking him and managing to keep a finger in his mouth for him to suck at the same time.  She picks up the orange with her free hand, holds it to her nose.  Tears shimmer in her eyes.

“We used to grow these, at home?  From my bedroom, I could see the tree, and I always used to hate it when it was full of fruit.  Like, there would be orange juice, orange cake, orange orange orange.  I never thought I’d be so happy to see one.”

“Let me get you a plate.”  Darcy does, and peels the orange, sectioning it so Beth can eat with one hand.  The juice smells sweet, a sharp tang that reminds her of sunshine.

Soon the food is gone.  Beth dips her finger into the orange juice remaining on the plate, lets Ravi suck it.  Finally, even his whimpers cease.

“You need to tell Ozy that you need food,” Darcy says.  “You need protein, vitamins, too.”

Beth dips her finger into the juice again, feeds it to Lugh.  “I can ask, I guess.”

“Ravi needs to eat, too.  If you’ve dried up, then you’ll need formula.”

Beth tilts her head to one side.  “How do you know all of this?  You have kids?”

Darcy smiles, but the expression feels strained.  “Big family.”

“I don’t even know where you’d find formula now.  Most of the drug stores are empty.”

Darcy’s hand moves to the battered iPod in her pocket.  She wonders how much Beth risked leaving it.  “I can ask some people.”

Beth’s eyes light up; she looks like a child promised a treat. “You’d do that?  Even after we ripped you off?”

“Well, I did leave the door open, right?  And if that’s a code, then it’s not like you did anything wrong really.”

The look on Beth’s face is sheer relief.  “You’re amazing, you know?  _You_ should have a goddess name.  One of the really good ones.  Artemis, maybe.  Or maybe _you_ should be Sif.” 

“I think the real Sif would probably take off my head if I tried.”

Beth chews her lip for a moment.  “You know, if those gods are real, then maybe the others are too.  Did you ever think of that?  That you could _touch_ a god?”

Ghost hands move over Darcy, and she feels heat gathering within her belly.  If she closed her eyes, she knew she could summon up the image of Loki in a heartbeat, as real as though she had actually been in his arms.

From outside comes a bang, as if of metal on metal.  Darcy and Beth are both up and at the window, Beth managing to sling Ravi onto her back as she moved.

There was a man clinging to the side of the building his feet propped on windowsills, one hand curled around a downpipe.  He has a heavy coil of wire looped around his back, tools shoved into his belt.  Beth waved to him, and he gave her a half-hearted salute in return.

“What is he doing out there?” Darcy asked.

“Spreading out,” Beth says.  “Hooking up this building to the others around it.”  She watched as the man uncoiled his wire, began feeding it into an open window.  “This building is already full, and people are starting to move outwards.  But you know, everyone wants the power and water and stuff.  Ozy figures that it’s easier to hook everything up to this building than try to get the power turned back on.  Like plugging in lots of extension cords.”

“I’m not sure it works that way.”

“If Ozy says it’ll work, then it will.”  Someone hollers from down the hall, and Beth is moving back to the door.  “Will you see about the food?  Formula?”

Darcy finds that she wants to say no, but Beth has turned around, and she can see that tiny boy.  He didn’t ask to be born into this world.  “I’ll see what I can do.  I can’t guarantee anything, though.”

“Artemis can do anything,” Beth says.  “You know, you should come to the Park tonight.  Ozy says that we’re open to anyone who wants to join, and if you want to stay in the building…”

The hollering comes again, and Beth starts visibly this time.  With one more smile, she is gone, the doorway empty again.

The headphones are still playing _Moonlight Sonata_.  Darcy winds them up, turns off the iPod.  Voices come from down the hallway, and Ravi cries again, a thin, plaintive wail.  Darcy sighs, goes into her wardrobe to take stock of what clothes she has remaining.

 

 

 

*

 

Vinh’s storefront has changed.  All of the boards have been sprayed over with solid black, covering the graffitied slogans, the bloodstain.  The black has even been sprayed onto the mirrored window, but there it has clung only in patches, drying in drips and blotches that look like bruises.

On the black-painted boards, someone sprayed a word in red: _Ozymandias_.  The red paint bleeds into the black, smearing the edges of the words, long drips reaching down to the pavement.

Darcy shivers as she knocks at the door.  Knocks again.  She has almost given up when the door finally opens a crack.  Vinh peers out, and when he lets her in, she sees that he is carrying a carving knife.  He holds its weight in his hand as though it is a familiar thing, though his hand is shaking.

Vinh says nothing, just hurries her inside.  There are crates missing from his labyrinth, empty spaces yawning around them as they hurry to the trapdoor.

Only when they are down in the shelter does Vinh relax, though he doesn’t put down the knife.  In the light there, Darcy can see purple bruises on his arm, a thin cut that curves across his cheek.

“What happened?” she asks.

Vinh raises his hand to his face.  “Just some boys.  It is okay, Miss Darcy.  We came to an understanding.”

“That doesn’t look like an understanding to me.  That looks like some little shits who are trying to take over and beating up an ol-“  She bites off the words.

“It is okay, Miss Darcy.  I am an old man.  And I have dealt with worse than those boys.  Like I say, it is okay.”  He smiles, and she sees that he’s lost another tooth, and that there’s black blood lining his gums.  “Now, Miss Darcy, what can I do for you today?  I am afraid that my suppliers have not been able to source any more Pop-tarts for you.”

Darcy forces a smile, but she can’t stop looking at the bruises, that cut.  “You’ll keep trying to get some more?”

Vinh folds his hands, bows slightly.  “For you, Miss Darcy, I will do anything.”  He pauses.  “You remind me of my daughter, my eldest.  Lin.  I think she would grow to be like you.  Not afraid.”

It takes everything Darcy has not to let her smile slip.  

Vinh looks away, blinking rapidly.  “Your order?” he prompts gently.

“Do you have any baby formula?  For a newborn, I think.”

Vinh’s eyebrows rise.

“It’s for a …friend.”

“In your building?”

Darcy looks away this time.  “She’s caught up in things.  Her baby, he’s starving.  He didn’t choose any of this.”

Vinh’s hand goes to the cut on his cheek, but he nods.  “I will look.”

He goes through into the storage room.  The shelves there are almost bare now.  Darcy wonders how much Ozymandias and his crew took off with.  How much was Vinh’s personal supply, “given” as a bribe for safety.

Vinh returns empty handed.  “There is nothing, Miss Darcy.  The baby things, they were the first to go, when things started going bad.  Perhaps the hospital?”

They both know that’s a joke.  The hospital was one of the first places looted.  But Darcy smiles.  “I’ll try that, Vinh.  Do you…have you…are you okay?”

Vinh folds his hands again.  “Today, I am doing well.  Tomorrow even better.”  He inclines his head.  “I will talk to my suppliers.  Any day now, the city will wake again.  I believe this with all of my being.”

She leaves him there belowground, still smiling, still nodding.  Up on the street, even the thin sunlight seems cold.

 

 

 

*

 

Darcy slides her security pass through the scanner, waits impatiently.  The light blinks red twice, then finally goes green.  She practically wants to kiss it, but pockets her pass again and moves through the door, closing it behind her quietly.

She’s worked another boring, uneventful shift, waiting until most of the day workers have retired to their apartments before she went searching through the other basements.  There had to be storage rooms somewhere, she’d decided.  Stark would have to stockpile food, supplies.  Maybe she’d be in luck, and there would be baby stuff there, too.  Stark and his people seem to have prepared for every eventuality, and she just hoped that this was one of them.

She hadn’t realised how extensive the basements of Stark Tower are.  They extend out in all directions, connecting, she guesses, with the basements of many of the other close buildings.  Occasionally, as she walks through the hallways, trying her pass at every door, she can feel the far-away rattle of the subway.  It makes her think of Vinh, of his bruises and cuts, his tiny shelter.  She pushes that thought away as soon as it forms, focusing on her task.

Most of the scanners deny her access, but occasionally some of the doors open.  She finds a hydroponics lab, empty and dark, rooms filled with stationary supplies.  For some reason, there’s also what looks like a library down here.  She wants to linger there, but settles for making a mental note of its location.  At least having books will make her shifts go faster.

After another dozen doors that refused her entry, she’d almost given up when she found this room.  There’s no label on the door, just as none of the other doors had labels, but the air inside is cool and smells of cardboard.  Promising enough for her to slip inside.

The lights inside are on, illuminating long rows of shelving holding what looks like hundreds of boxes, if not thousands.  Darcy pokes into a few, and can’t restrain herself from doing a little dance.  Inside the boxes are tinned goods, freeze-dried packets, even what look like army rations.  Enough food to feed the tower for what looks like years, and none of it touched yet, as far as she can see.  She can’t find any manifest, and there appears to be no system for how things are stacked.  It’s going to make for a frustrating search, but it also gives her hope that anything she takes will not be missed.

She is opening crates on the first aisle of shelving when the door opens.  Darcy freezes, a box balanced on the edge of the shelf.  When Jane enters the storage room, the box slips, falls to the ground.  Packets of freeze-dried blueberries surround her.

Jane stares at her.  She’s wearing old jeans, a flannel shirt that has seen better days.  She wears no makeup, and there are circles beneath her eyes.  She looks like she hasn’t slept for days.

“Um, hi?” Darcy says.

Jane lingers just inside the doorway, her fingers rubbing at the edge of her security pass.  “What are you doing here, Darcy?”

Darcy crouches down, begins gathering the packets of blueberries and stacking them back into the box as best she can.  “I was bored?  Had a hankering for blueberries?”

Jane pulls her phone from her pocket, her thumb moving over the screen.

“Not telling on me, are you?”  Darcy finishes replacing the blueberries, puts the box back on the shelf.  She spreads her hands out, to show Jane that they are empty.  “I haven’t taken anything.  I swear.”

Jane’s phone vibrates.  She bites her lip, but puts the phone back in her pocket.

“If you’re after the chocolate, I actually found some a few boxes ago,” Darcy says.  “Milk, though.  You think Stark would have gone for the dark chocolate.  You know, antioxidants and all of that.  Maybe Pepper likes milk chocolate, though.  God, knowing Stark, there’s probably even champagne down here.  Can’t have him missing out on his fun, even at the end of the world.”  She’s aware that she’s babbling, but she can’t seem to stop.

Jane goes to the next aisle over, opens a box and pulls out some protein bars.  She doesn’t look at Darcy once.

“Jane?  You’re actually there, right?  I’m not hallucinating?  Cause if I am, can I please request a buff, semi-naked man?  It’s kind of lonely living through the apocalypse.  Oh, and I’d also like a beer, and maybe a new iPod, while we’re at it?”

Jane hugs the protein bars to her chest.  “I’m here, Darcy.”

“Well, damn, no buff guys for me tonight.”  Darcy forces a laugh.  “Seriously, though, Jane, you kind of look like hell.  Have you actually been sleeping?  Eating?”

Jane holds up a bar.  “I’ll sleep when…”  She trails off.

“Oh.”  It is Darcy who looks away now.  “You’re working on the whole Bifrost wormhole thing.  Of course.”

Jane manages a shaky smile.  “I should probably get back to it.”  She turns back to the door, then hesitates.  “If you need food, you just need to ask.  I know that you gave away your allocation.  And you should take the apartment here, too.  It’s safer.”

“Hey, I have my taser.  No one touches Darcy Lewis, remember?”  Except she _doesn’t_ have her taser, of course.  But Jane doesn’t know that, and by the looks of it, she has enough to worry about.  “By the way, can you tell Stark that having J.A.R.V.I.S. spy on me is super weird?  I mean, I’m happy not to get locked in places and all, but it’s kind of creepy.”

Jane turns around then.  “Didn’t they tell you?  J.A.R.V.I.S. doesn’t monitor that sub-basement.  It’s all just closed circuit, not linked into the main systems at all.  Not even the camera feeds get sent upstairs unless you trigger them manually.”

Darcy feels her heart skip a beat.  “Oh.”

“You read all the papers before you signed them, right?”

“Hey, I’m not stupid,” Darcy says.  “Who signs things without reading them, right?”  She forces another smile.  “While you’re here, do you know if there’s a database or list of what’s here in storage?”

“I don’t think there is, not that you or I can access, anyway.”  Jane is watching her closely, her expression unreadable.  “What are you looking for?”

“Um, baby formula?  It’s not for me.  Clearly, since last time I checked, I wasn’t actually a baby.”  Darcy snaps her mouth shut on the babble this time.

Jane watches her a moment longer.  “I’ll see what I can find, okay?”  She hesitates again.  “Darcy, look after yourself, okay?”  There are lines of worry on her forehead.

“Hey, taser girl, remember?  Blow up the world, and I’ll find some way to survive.”

Jane opens her mouth, as though she wants to say something else, then shakes her head slightly and leaves the room.  Darcy listens to her footsteps fade down the hallway, and waits until there has been silence for at least five minutes before she exits herself.

And then she is running back through the corridors, running until she is standing in the guard room again.  This time she remembers to grab the remote before she opens the gate.

Loki is still sitting there, the cameras blinking their lights in a regular rhythm.

No J.A.R.V.I.S. means that there was nothing and no one to have opened the gate when she locked herself in.  There was only one person who could have.

Her heart is racing as she presses down on the intercom.  “You can stop the act now, Loki.  I know you’re awake.”

Her breathing is loud in the small space as she waits.  Finally, he opens his eyes, the green of his irises two startling points of colour in the black and white of his cell.

 

 


	9. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the people leaving comments, kudos and bookmarking! You guys all make my day. Seriously.
> 
> Apologies if there are any weird typos or anything, since I'm working in a bit of a migraine haze today (medication gets rid of the pain, but I get left with the weirdness). I am just too impatient to get chapters up.
> 
> And a friendly reminder that I'm on Tumblr as [ofravenwings](http://ofravenwings.tumblr.com/), feel free to follow me!

Darcy is standing, one hand pressed on the intercom, the other against the perspex wall.  That tingling warmth moves over her fingers again, then the air begins to grow cold.  She releases the intercom, wraps her arms around herself.  His eyes don’t miss the movement; they flick down to her hands, then up to her face again.  The cold begins to ebb away.  The hallway is by no means warm, but at least Darcy doesn’t feel like she’s going to succumb to hypothermia in the next five minutes.

“I don’t get it,” she says.  “They send you here, God only knows how without the Bifrost.  Jane is working herself into the ground to find a way back to Asgard, trying to see Thor again.  And then poof, you’re just here.  As punishment.  If they can send one person here, why not send Thor?  We could use him these days.”

The intercom isn’t active, so there’s no way he can hear her.  He does not move, just watches her.  He might as well be carved from ice.

“What the hell are you even doing?” she continues.  Her voice is louder now, echoing in the small space.  She can feel the blood pulsing at her temples.  “Just sitting here pretending to be asleep or comatose or whatever.  Stark is wasting food on you, you have clean air, clean water, electricity, when most of the city has none of that.  People are starving, people are _dying_ , and you’re tucked away here all cosy.  As what?  _Punishment_?”

Loki does not move.

Darcy presses her hands against the perspex again.  The tingling feels soothing, calming.  Her rage is ebbing, leaving her feeling hollowed out.  Her head is beginning to spin, reminding her of how long it has been since she has eaten a proper meal.

“Was it even you who opened the gate?” she asks.

One side of his mouth curves up ever so slightly, and then he closes his eyes again and is still.

“I am so not doing this,” she says.  “I am not playing these stupid little games with the man - with the _monster_ \- who tried to destroy our world just so he could wear a crown and call himself king.  I hope Jane finds her way to Asgard soon, and Thor can return.  He’s worth a dozen of you.  No wonder your father rejected you and made him king.”

She splits the last, surprising herself with her own vehemence.  And though there’s no way that Loki can hear her, he winces.

She turns from the cell, stomps through the gate, slams her hand down on the button to close it.  She half sits, half collapses onto the couch.  Her vision is greying out, her ears ringing.  She curls into a ball, pressing her knees into her chest.

She should feel better.  She doesn’t.

 

*

 

This time, when she slides into dreaming, she is aware of it.  One moment she is curled up on the couch in the guard room, staring at the wall and trying not to think of Loki on the other side of the wall.  

Her own breathing, her heartbeat stretch out as her body slows, slips sideways into sleep.

Everything goes black.  Everything is silent.

She is aware first of the feeling of air moving past her.  It slides over her skin, lifts her hair from her scalp.  Next comes light: points of illumination which press out from the darkness one by one.  White lights only at first, and then colours: emerald nebulas, sapphire planets, gold and silver stars.

She is falling through space.

She falls, and she falls, and there is no beginning, no end to it.

She has always been falling.  She will always be falling.

She is falling, alone, forever.

Then something reaches out from the darkness between the stars, takes hold of her.  The starfield shifts, and then she is falling gently, a leaf on the wind, warm water rising up around her.

Gentle hands press her down beneath the surface of the water for a heartbeat, and then she rises up, water streaming from her.  Darcy knows immediately this time that it is still a dream, that she is riding in someone else’s body.  The girl is closer in shape to her this time, though her body is softer, more buoyant.

The girl is in a copper bath, the warm water shimmering with oils and strewn with small white snowdrops and lilies.  Next to the bath is a woman with pale copper hair fastened into long braided loops.  She wears a simple white shift, and has more snowdrops twined into her hair.  Darcy knows, because the girl knows, that this is her mother, and she is preparing her.  The girl will not think of what she is being prepared for, but Darcy can feel the fear tight in her.

The girl’s mother holds up a swathe of white linen, gestures to her daughter.  There are no words during this ceremony, and there are no names.  There is only the movement of linen against soft flesh the warmth of fire on all sides.

When the girl is dried, her mother slips a white linen shift over her head.  She uses her fingers to comb out the girl’s long ruddy hair, twisting locks so they dry into ringlets.  She takes a long time doing this, combing over and over through the strands, pausing to press her fingers against pressure points on the girl’s scalp.  When she is finally done, the girl’s hair is dry, hanging soft and loose as a cloak around her.  She turns the girl around, looks into her eyes for a long time.  Kisses her on the forehead and steps out of the circle of light.

The girl stands next to the tub, breathing slowly in and out.  There is smoke on the air, the scent of heady incense.  The smoke flows into her blood, making her limbs heavy, fogging her mind.

When hands lead her away from the tub and the fires, she does not resist.  A cloak is placed around her shoulders - the same white linen as her shift - and the hood pulled up to hide her face.  Those same hands lead her away again, up a winding path.  Her bare feet move over rocks smoothed as though with the passage of water, and she thinks of herself as a river flowing upstream.

She is led into a small cave lit by candlelight.  A fire is set in a small natural alcove, and someone throws handfuls of herbs onto the flames.  They flicker deep green, thin smoke flowing into the cave body.  The girl breathes it in, gulps it down, welcoming the fog that it brings. 

She kneels just inside the cave entrance.  And she waits.

When the storm comes, the girl begins to shake.  Darcy wants somehow to hold her, to comfort her, but she is simply a passenger, only able to watch.

In the distance, drums sound, then voices rise in a wordless chant.  Another voice comes, this one powerful, commanding.  The girl does not listen.  She cannot listen.  She is filled with fear despite the smoke, terror a black thing holding her frozen.

The sound of boots comes on the path leading up to the cave.  Locked in the girl’s fear-filled mind, Darcy listens as they come closer.  Finally, the girl can see boots before her.  Black leather.  There is a smell like burning in the air, like the dark scent in the air a moment after lightning hits a tree, the split second before the wood catches flame.

A finger beneath the girl’s chin forces her face up, and she sees who stands there.

Loki.

He is young, still, as in the other dream, but a hardness has begun to tighten his features.  He is dressed in black leather tooled with gold, his golden helmet covering his hair.  In the girl’s eyes, he is a monster, he is a god, he is a devourer.  Her fear rises, and she is shaking as he pulls her roughly to her feet, pushes her into the cave.

Outside, a great cry goes up, and then the drums sound one more time and then are silenced.

Loki pushes the girl into the cave, tears her cloak from her shoulders, tosses it onto a bed of furs waiting in the corner.  A small chest rests next to the bed.  He opens this, removes a flagon and two goblets.  He pours a splash into one, fills the other to the brim.  The full one he drinks down, then he brings the other to the girl’s lips, tilts it, as if he knows that she is too frozen with fear to hold it.

She does not open her lips, and he leans down, looks into her eyes.  As he moves, golden light moves around him; his helmet vanishes, along with the armour.  He wears a dark green linen shift, trousers of soft brown leather, his feet bare.

“It will be well, little one,” he says.  He does not speak English, but Darcy understands him all the same.  “The wine will make it easier.”  His eyes are surprisingly soft as he tilts the goblet again.

The girl opens her mouth, takes a swallow of the wine.  It uncurls in her stomach, warmth spreading out, melting the icy fear.

Her muscles grow lax, and it is easy for Loki to direct her to the furs, to press her down onto her back, careful to disturb the white linen cloak beneath her as little as possible.  He stands again, appraising, adjusts an arm, a leg.  When he grasps the hem of her shift, the girl freezes again despite the wine, curls up tight in her mind.  So tight that Darcy is hardly aware that she’s there at all.

And suddenly it feels as though it is only Darcy in this body, that it is her limbs that Loki is arranging, her skirt that he is pulling up over her thighs.  The rush of sensation is overwhelming, taste and scent and touch flooding her mind.  She can only stare at him as he rocks back on his heels, looks at her.  His pupils are dilated, and his breath has quickened.  She expects him to touch her, but he does not.  Instead, he reaches over to the chest, withdraws a small dagger.  Darcy stiffens at the sight of the sharp blade.

“Hush, little one,” Loki says.  He smooths back her hair from her face, smiles.  “It is a small deception only.  You will be safe.  And when they send you to your new husband, after the ceremony, simply tell him that Loki’s magic restored your maidenhead.  As a blessing on the marriage and upon your people.”

He smiles again, but the expression is tight, sadness in his eyes.  He draws the dagger across the inside of his own wrist, drips blood onto the linen between her parted thighs.  He wipes the dagger on his shirt then replaces it in the chest.  As he pours himself more wine, Darcy sees that the cut is already fading.  He sits down next to the bed, his back against the cave wall, staring into the fire and sipping his wine.

Darcy watches his profile.  Her mind is fogged by the smoke, the wine.  Loki’s goblet is half empty before she realises what is happening.  This girl is a sacrifice sent to Loki, a virgin to be bedded in return for his favour or protection.  He could have taken her, but he has chosen not to.

“Trickster,” Darcy says.  The word comes out in the girl’s language, oddly shaped in her mouth.  Inside her mind, she feels the girl uncurl slightly, watching.

Loki does not look at her, simply smiles thinly around the rim of his goblet.

Darcy pulls herself up off the bed, careful not to disturb the drying blood.  Loki watches her through narrowed eyes as she comes around to kneel before him.  He holds his goblet between them, a shield.

Darcy looks at him.  It takes an effort to hold onto her thoughts, thanks to the herbed smoke, but she does so.  She remembers Yrsa, the younger Loki who came to her willing and innocent.  She remembers the man who destroyed New York.  Remembers that this is a dream.

No, that this, as with Yrsa, is a _memory_.  _Loki’s_ memory.

“How many have there been?” she asks.  “Girls like th-“  She bites off the word.  “Like me.”

He sets his goblet down, the metal making a soft sound against the stone floor of the cave.  “How many harvests have there been?”

“And have none of them come to you willing?”

He searches her face for a moment.  “None of Midgard come willingly to Loki, little one.  I am not my brother.  I am simply his shadow.”  His lips twist on the words.

“Is he…does he…?”

“Take sacrifice?” Loki finishes lightly.  “Willingly, and often.  In Midgard and in Asgard.”

“This is part of what made you, isn’t it?” Darcy asks.  Impulsively, she reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from his face.  He grows still, and she wonders how long it has been since anyone who wasn’t family has touched him.  “They came to you, but not because they wanted to.  And you took none of them.  You could have, and you chose not to.”

He looks away, but she can see the light of the fire dancing liquid in his eyes.

Inside Darcy’s mind, the girl uncurls more.  Darcy sends her a wordless question, feels the girl’s assent.  She swallows hard, takes a deep breath of the smoke, feeling the girl’s muscles loosen.  Her fear is still there, a taut thread, but there is curiosity, too, and there is willing assent.  She is happy to be a passenger, to experience, to let Darcy direct.

Darcy presses her hands against the cave floor.  It feels more real than any dream, any memory that she has known.  

 _It is more than a dream, child,_ her mother’s voice says in her mind.  As she speaks, the voice changes, becomes something almost, but not quite, her mother.  _It is a gift, and you are truly here.  Choose your actions, your words, well._

A thin sheen of sweat rises on Darcy’s skin.  She swallows again, her throat suddenly dry.  It is the girl curled inside her mind who gives her the gentle push to begin, to raise her hand and push back another lock of Loki’s hair, to trail her fingers down the sharp plane of his cheek.

He looks back at her, his lips parting slightly.  The pulse in his throat beats erratically.

“You do not have to be _kind_ to me,” he says, his voice hoarse.  “It is not necessary.”

“I am doing this,” Darcy says, letting her fingers move back up, trailing them through his hair.  Though there is a greasy sheen to the black strands, they are impossibly soft beneath her fingers.  She keeps moving her hand, twisting one of the locks to form a ringlet in the same fashion that the girl’s mother had.  “I am doing this because I wish to.  Loki.”  She lets the girl’s curiosity flow into that word, her willingness.

Loki reaches up, takes Darcy’s hand in his own.  He turns it over, cups it in his palm.  Her hand is smaller than his, more fragile, but close enough to Darcy’s own shape that it isn’t jarring for Darcy to see.

“What is your name, little one?” Loki asks, tracing a finger across Darcy’s palm.

Darcy notices, for the first time, how beautiful Loki’s hands are.  His fingers are long, with the dextrous look she has always associated with pianists and artists.  And she wonders suddenly who Loki would have been, had he not grown up in Thor’s shadow.  She withdraws slightly, allows the girl whose body she rides in to answer, to give assent.

“Bera, my lord,” she says.  “And I am willing.”

Darcy allows Bera to stand, to grasp the hem of her shift and draw it up over her head.  

 _I want to experience this_ , she says inside her head to Darcy.  _Show me how?_

Bera recedes again, allowing Darcy full control of their shared body.  All too suddenly, Darcy is aware that she is standing naked before Loki, who is still fully dressed, sitting with his back to the cave wall.  His eyes darken, but he makes no move.

Darcy shifts her weight, Bera’s body almost as comfortable as if she was in her own skin.  Loki follows the small movements with his eyes, and his fingers press against the ground, nails whitening.

“I am willing,” Darcy repeats.  “Loki.”

His eyes flutter closed as she smooths her fingers through his hair again, twisting the strands and tugging lightly.  His breath catches in his throat, and then his eyes open.  A slow smile creeps across his face, and then he is flowing to his feet.  He stands close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his flesh, the smoke and leather scent of him rising around her.

They stand like that, close but not touching, and Darcy feels warmth begin to flow through her.  And then, finally, he moves.  He raises a hand, pressing his fingers against her chin to raise her face so that her eyes meet his.  He searches her eyes, and then leans down, presses his lips softly to hers.  Everything is slow, and everything is so gentle that it brings tears to Darcy’s eyes.  Inside her mind, she feels Bera looking on, experiencing everything with open wonder.

When Loki breaks the kiss, Darcy moves.  Her hands are shaking as she unlaces the ties of his tunic, eases it up over his head.  He raises his arms to aid her, and a moment before the fabric blocks his face from view, she glimpses him smiling, pure joy and wonder shining in his eyes.

Bera uncurls more in Darcy’s mind.  _He is just a man,_ she says.  _He is a god, but he is also a man.  His heart beats, his blood flows._

It is Darcy who is smiling now as she pulls Loki’s tunic free.  He smiles back, then laughs.  The hardness is gone from his face now, and he looks once more like the young man who came to Yrsa.  She trails her fingers down his cheek, across the pulse in his neck, across his collarbone.  He is much leaner than the men she has always gone for, but there is a contained grace to him, a strength that she couldn’t have imagined beneath the layers of leather and armour she has always seen him wear.

The urge to just grab him and wrestle him to the floor of the cave rises in her, but she pushes it down, mindful of the fact that Bera is a virgin.

 _Holy crap,_ she thinks.  _I just thought of wrestling Loki to the ground.  I just thought of him as beautiful._

 _But he is,_ Bera says, uncurling even more.  _He is._

Darcy trails her hands down across the plane of his abdomen to the waist of his trousers, fastened there with a leather thong.  He is growing hard already, pressing against the leather.  It is Bera who makes her look away, Bera whose cheeks flush.

“Nothing will happen to you that you do not wish, little one,” Loki says, turning her face back to his.  He keeps his hand cupped against her cheek; his fingers are warm.  “Say the world, and I will listen.”

 _Do you want this?_ Darcy asks Bera inside her mind.

 _Yes,_ Bera says.  _Yes.  Both of us, together?_

Bera uncurls fully in Darcy’s mind, flows together with Darcy until she is not certain where one of them ends and the other begins.  Loki leans down and kisses Darcy, and both Darcy and Bera feel the kiss, their shared heart quickening as Loki’s fingers follow the same path hers had on him: skimming over the pulse in her throat, across her collarbone.  There, he pulls away from the kiss slightly, his lips curving into a smile, and his fingers move lower, tracing the heaviness of Darcy’s breast, spiralling lazily in until he is drawing slow, languid circles around her nipple, which stiffens in response.

Darcy moans deep in her throat, and when her body curves into his touch, she is not certain if it is herself or Bera.

 _Think of yourself as Darcy,_ Bera says in her mind.  _It will make it easier_.

And so it is Darcy who reaches up to Loki, who pulls his mouth down to hers.  The kisses are chaste, close-mouthed at first, and then Loki’s tongue parts her lips, delves within.  Her own tongue slides over his, and she moans again, presses herself hard into the kiss.

When Loki pulls away again, she makes a small involuntary whimper.  He smiles that wicked smile of his, touching his fingers to his lips.  “Your husband will be well served by you, little one.”

Darcy flushes again, finds her gaze drawn to his hardness, pressing fully now against his trousers.  He makes no move to remove them, but carefully shifts the bloodstained cloak from the bed of furs, then lies Darcy down onto them, pausing to smooth her hair back from her face.  He smiles again, presses another hard kiss to her mouth, and then begins working his way down her body with lips, teeth and hands.  

He moves slowly, so slowly that if Darcy were in her own body she would have no compunction about swearing at him for his lack of speed.  Bera, however, glories in the small circles his fingers draw on her skin, his mouth as he seeks to taste every inch of her flesh.

Then he is kneeling between her legs, his thumbs circling on her inner thighs as he gently presses them apart.  He smiles again, draws the backs of his nails down one thigh, pauses, his smile widening, and then draws his nails up her other thigh.  Darcy whimpers again, her hips canting up to him.  His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and he chuckles, repeats the action in the opposite direction.

“Please.”  The word slips from Bera’s lips.  “ _Please_.”

Loki chuckles again, then he leans down and blows surprisingly cool air against her.  Bera shudders, lifts her hips up to him.  He is faster, sitting back and repeating the dragging of his nails up and down her thighs.

“When they bring to to your husband, after, you will tell him of this,” he said.  “Instruct him on how best to please you.”

And then, finally, he lowers his mouth to her.  Licks up the length of her, swirls briefly against her clit.  Darcy feels him smile against her, and then he is sliding a finger gently into her.

“This may hurt a little,” he says, lifting up enough that he can look into her eyes.  “It is the way of it.”

In answer, Darcy pushes her hips up, hard, against his finger.  He chuckles again, and presses a soft kiss to her inner thigh, pushing harder into her.  There is resistance when he tries to add a second, and Darcy jerks away despite herself.  Loki makes a soothing noise, withdraws slightly, swirls his tongue over her clit, hard and fast.  The explosion of sensation is such that she barely notices the pain when he presses deeper into her, adds a third finger.

Everything shrinks down to the feel of his tongue flickering against her, his fingers thrusting within her.  And then, with a final flick of his tongue, she is coming.  Darcy withdraws as much as she can, to allow Bera to experience her first orgasm as fully as possible.  Even withdrawn, the sensation is enough to send her reeling.  

Loki gently withdraws his fingers, moves to lie next to her, his hand moving lazily over her belly.  Even as the orgasm ebbs away, she can feel herself growing taut again just from that touch, her heartbeat beginning to accelerate.

He leans in to kiss her again, and though he has wiped his mouth, she can taste herself on his lips.  It is surprisingly erotic, and she curves herself against him.  He gasps as her skin meets his, his arms coming around her, nails pressing hard into her skin.

Darcy is not thinking of anything when she pushes him over onto his back, presses kisses against the skin of his chest and belly.  His skin is _soft_ , the muscles beneath speaking of long hours training with weaponry.  It is an addictive combination, unlike anything she has ever known.  When she lifts herself back up to kiss his mouth, Loki’s breathing is uneven, and his hands clutch at her hips.

“Do you know how it is between a man and a woman?” he asks.

Darcy lets Bera answer.  “I have seen the animals, my lord.  Enough to know that these-“ She tugs at his trousers, “-are not necessary.”

He smiles again.  When he unlaces his trousers and slides them down, his hands are shaking.  “Remember, you do not have to do anything you do not wish, little one.  You can save this for your husband.”

Bera shakes her head, and Darcy reaches out, wraps her hand around him.  He gasps, his hips jerking and eyes darkening.  And then he is pushing her back against the furs, his skin sliding against hers, and she is drowning in his heat, in his eyes.

He keeps his eyes open as he kisses her, and Darcy does, too.  His pupils are so wide that she cannot see the green of his irises, and she can tell, as she skims her fingers across his back and hips, that it is taking a great deal of control for him to hold back.  She curves her lips into a smile, reaches down and wraps her hand around him again, brushes her thumb against his head just so she can hear him make that strangled gasp again.  Angles her hips up and guides him into her.

Despite his earlier ministrations, there is still some tightness, Bera’s body resisting him.  Darcy wants to wrap her legs around his waist, pull him hard into her, but she is aware of Bera’s slight hesitation.  Darcy pulls away, reluctantly, letting Bera take over.  If she’d had control of Bera’s eyes, she thinks she would have wept at Loki’s tenderness, his fingers ghosting over the curve of her hip, her thigh, as his hips move, pressing forward gently, moving slightly deeper with each thrust until he is as deep inside her as possible.  There, he pauses, lifting up on his elbows to look down at Bera.  He says nothing, just lets his eyes move over her face, then kisses her gently.

Darcy is an observer now, watching the two of them as they find a rhythm.  The gentleness fades, is replaced by need as they move together, Bera’s breath hitching in her throat as she thrusts up at Loki.  His hand moves down between them, working at her clit until she comes again with a startled cry.  Only then does he release his own control, thrusting rapidly into her before he comes, his breath rushing hot against her neck.

Bera lets Darcy back in as Loki withdraws, lies down with her curled against him, his hand splayed against her stomach.  They lie like that, their breathing returning to normal, sweat drying on their skin.

Only then does Darcy become aware of the drumming.  It sounds like dozens of drums, all being beaten in unison, a deep sound, like the heartbeat of the earth.  One drum detaches from the rest, sounding its beat in the silence of the others.  With each beat, it comes closer.  Someone is walking up the path to the cave.  They pause outside, drumming a quick beat.

Loki sighs, grasps Darcy’s hand, pressing a kiss to it.  “Time to deliver you to your husband, little one.”

He insists on dressing her in her shift, tying the bloodstained cloak around her shoulders.  It takes him a flick of the wrist to dress, grinning at her when she gapes at the use of magic.  As the walk hand-in-hand towards the cave entrance, gold shimmers around him, and then he is wearing his armour again, his helmet with the curved horns.  Bera quakes a little, then, but he squeezes her hand gently.

“Remember me to your children?” he asks.  “Though, please, for the sake of them, do not name any of them after me.”

He grins again, then releases her hand.

The drums, abruptly, fall silent.

The man who enters the cave.  Bera’s mind names him priest, though her mind renders the word differently, unfamiliar to Darcy.  She bends her knee, then turns, so the priest can inspect her cloak.  It is apparently sufficient, for her clasps a hand to her shoulder and turns her around.  There is a sorrow in his eyes, but he smiles.  Steps back to allow her to pass.

“Blessings, my child,” he says.

Bera bends her knee again.  These movements are familiar to her, practiced.  “Blessings, father.”

Darcy is aware of Loki standing behind her still, of the stickiness of his seed on her thighs.  

The priest turns to Loki, who steps forward to stand next to Bera, both of them in a pool of light cast by torches burning outside the cave.  

Loki raises his arms, his leather and armour creaking.  “All is blessed for the coming year, my people!”

A great cheer goes up from the people gathered below.  Bera smiles up at Loki, who, after checking that the priest is looking elsewhere, winks at her.

“Lord Loki, you may take your leave now,” the priest says, stepping back, his hand on her arm ensuring that Bera moves with him.

“I believe,” Loki says.  “I believe that this time, I will remain for the festivities.  I wish to see Bera dance, to wish her husband well.”

The priest pales slightly, but he nods. His hand is tight on Bera’s arm as he leads her back down the winding path, Loki following behind.  Darcy realises that she has retreated in Bera’s mind, tries to move forward again.

 _This path is mine to walk,_ Bera says in her mind.  _Watch, but do not interfere now.  The ceremony is sacred._

If Darcy had possessed a stomach, it would have roiled with unease.  When Bera looks back at Loki, she can see that his eyebrows have been drawn together in a frown.

The people waiting below fall silent as they see Loki, and, as one, fall on bended knee.  He allows this, allows two of the men to drag a carved chair close to the bonfire for him, press a goblet of mead into his hand.  A flat stone rests nearby, the rock strewn with white lilies and snowdrops.  Bera shivers when she sees that stone, cold despite the warmth of the flames.

Another priest appears, this one carrying the small chest from the cave.  A woman behind him bears the furs that Bera and Loki had lain on.  One by one, she throws them onto the fire, following each fur with a handful of astringent herbs.  The stench of burning hair rises, masked not at all by the herbs.  Bera draws in a deep breath, another, forcing herself to stand straight, not to choke.

The first priest takes her by the hand, leads her over to the stone, onto it.  It is hot beneath her bare feet, but she does not pull away.  In her mind, Darcy scans the crowd around them, wondering which of the boys would be Bera’s husband.

The drums begin again.  A slower beat now, doubled like a heartbeat.  Bera’s own heart slows to match the pace.  She draws in another lungful of the smoke, and it bleeds into her veins, makes her muscles lax and heavy.  When the priest unfastens her cloak, she does not react.  When the woman pulls her shift from her body, she makes no sound.  Both articles of clothing are flung onto the fire, where they burn with a bright green flame.

Loki watches this, his expression veiled.  He has not touched his mead, and though he appears to sit casually on his chair, Darcy can see the tense lines around his mouth and eyes.

Bera smiles at him, as if in reassurance.

And then the chest is opened, the dagger that Loki used to cut his wrist removed.

The priest passes it through the still-green flames, and, chanting, turns to Bera.  Her eyes are heavy, each blink more darkness than light, affording her glimpses only of what is happening.

She sees the priest passing the dagger through the flames again, the edge of the blade blackening.

She sees Loki sitting forward, his goblet tumbling to the ground.

And then the dagger is pulled hard against her throat, the hot metal parting her skin, hotter blood flowing out and out.  The drumbeats slow and slow and slow.

And stop.

All is darkness.


	10. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the kudos and bookmarks and comments. Comments make me so, so happy.
> 
> And yeah sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger on the last chapter. Kind of one here too, but not quite as mean.

Everything smells like blood.

Everything smells like death.

Darcy sits up, and the room spins around her.  She can still feel the sharp edge of the dagger pressed against her throat, can still feel it parting skin and muscle, artery and vein.  Her heartbeat stutters, skips, and she feels as though she is drowning, her vision darkening.

There is just enough left of her rational mind to recognise that she is in the guard room, that she is on the threadbare couch.  She lowers her head between her knees, focuses on her breathing.  Tells herself that she has breathed every damn moment of her life without thinking about it, and she damn well was not going to stop now because of a dream.

Slowly, the sensation of the knife at her throat fades, along with the scents of smoke and blood.  Slowly, her breathing steadies, her heartbeat evens.  When she sits up again, her head swims, but only for a moment.

It had only been a dream.  Nothing more.

“No,” she says softly.  “It wasn’t a dream.  It was a memory.”

From where she is sitting, she cannot see the screens of the monitors on the desk.  But she can _feel_ Loki’s presence in the cell, a dark weight dragging against the fabric of the world.

Before she can think better of it, she is on her feet, slamming her hand onto the gate control, snatching up the remote and flying into the hallway outside the cell.

Loki is standing in the centre of the cell.  His head is bowed, tangled hair falling forward to veil his face.  His hands are folded at his waist, long fingers twisted together.  He breathes out slowly, and she can see his breath misting.

It is the first time that she has seen him standing in his cell.  She had actually forgotten how damn _tall_ he is, how small the cell is.  Sitting, he had seemed manageable, just a prisoner, helpless and trapped.  Now, he looks like a storm contained, and that just barely.

Darcy switches the intercom on to an open channel.  Static fills the hallway; it sounds like falling rain.  

“It was a memory, wasn’t it?” she asks.  “ _Your_ fucking memory.”

Light catches in his eyes, glinting behind the veil of his hair.  That glance, hidden though it is, is enough to bring the memory of his body moving against hers, moving _in_ her.  The memory of his kiss, of his touch.  Warmth gathers deep inside her.

She pushes it away.  Reminds herself that it wasn’t even her body he touched.

“Why did you let them do that to her?” Darcy rubs at her throat, against the line where the dagger had sliced.  “You just let them slaughter her.  You let them _murder_ her.  And for what?  Your godly glory?”

He doesn’t move, just watches her as she paces back and forth across the hallway, rubbing and rubbing at her neck.

She slams a hand against the perspex; the sound is like an explosion in the small space.  “Was it worth it?” she asks, half spitting the question.  “Was it worth deceiving an innocent child just so you can call yourself a god?”

“You’re bleeding.”  His voice is little more than a whisper, barely rising above the static.

When she takes her hand from the barrier, she sees that her palm has left a dim blood print behind.  She touches her neck, and her fingers come away wet with bright blood.  Panic rises, and she turns and runs to the bathroom in the hallway.

In the mirror, she sees it.  A thin line only, nothing like the slash that they had made in Bera’s throat, but it is bleeding all the same.  She wets a towel, sponges away the blood.  Beneath, there is no wound, the skin smooth and untouched.  For some reason, that seems worse than an actual cut, the thought of blood just seeping through her skin twisting through her stomach.  Nausea rises, and she turns away, heaves into the toilet.  Nothing comes up but thin bile.

She flushes, and sinks down onto the cool tiles on the floor.  Her head is pounding, and sweat slicks her skin.  She feels as weak as though she has been battling with food poisoning for a week, and she just wants to lie here on the tiles forever, close her eyes and forget about everything.

Something beeps, high and thin.  She’s still holding onto the gate remote, its shape pressed into her hand.  A small red light is blinking on its side, indicating that the gate is still open.

She has an image of Loki just walking through that transparent barrier, taking the city as he had planned.

She doesn’t even have the energy to swear as she stumbles back to the guard room.  She glances into the cell once only, to ensure that he is still there, then closes the gate.

Colour outside the door catches her attention.  Bright red.  

Her heart stutters, her first thought that she bled all over the corridor.  But when she pulls herself to her feet and peers out of the door, she sees that it is the edge of a cloth bag she can see.  There are two there, both large and emblazoned with the Stark logo.  Loki’s breakfast tray is there, too.  With effort, she drags the lot inside, collapses onto the couch.

A note is pinned to one of the bags.  Darcy unfolds it to find Jane’s familiar scrawl.

_One bag for the baby and the mother.  The other is for you. I’ll make sure you get more._

_\- Jane._

Tears prick at Darcy’s eyes as she opens the bag.  One holds formula, bottles, cloth nappies, vitamin supplements and energy bars.  The other, for her, contains packets of dried fruit, more energy bars and vitamins.  She does actually cry a little when she gets to the bottom of the bag, finds several bags of chocolate-covered espresso beans, coffee for the coffee machine in the hall.  And an iPod, shiny and new in its box, a sticky note pressed to the front containing passwords to music directories on one of the Stark servers.

It takes all of her self control to eat one of the energy bars first, taking small bites.  Nausea rises again, but she swallows it down, keeps eating.  It’s been too long since she’s eaten properly, she knows, and she doesn’t want her stomach to reject the food.  Only when the bar is sitting easily in her stomach does she take the coffee to the machine in the hallway.

Someone - Jane, she presumes, or someone ordered by her - has cleaned the machine, set mugs, sugar and creamer in their places.  Darcy cries again a little as she makes a cup, sips it slowly standing there, feeling its warmth uncurl in her stomach.  She hadn’t realised how cold she was until she was warm again.  When her mug is empty, she makes a second cup, takes it back into the guard room.

Only once she has taken a multi-vitamin does she turn to Loki’s tray.  She hooks the remote to her pocket, then picks up the tray and carries it through into the cell.

He is sitting now on the cot, his hair pushed back from his face.  He watches as she places the tray in the slot, pushes it through.  He makes no move to take it.

“People are starving because of you,” Darcy says.  “And for some reason that I _cannot_ fathom, you get to be tucked away down here safe and snug, three meals a day hand delivered.

His eyes move over the food on the tray.

“Whatever,” Darcy says.  “Eat or don’t eat, it’s not my problem.”

She is halfway back to the gate when he speaks again.  His voice is louder now, though his words still rasp in his throat.

“I did not know,” he says.  “Bera, the other supplicants.  I did not know of their fate, after.”

Darcy turns back, fixes him with a flat gaze.  “Bullshit.  How could you not know?  You were _there_.”

“Before Bera-“  His voice cracks on the name.  He pinches the skin of his throat, as though to ease an ache there.  “I was never required to remain, after they came to me.  I never chose to.”  His face is expressionless as he speaks, his eyes far away.  “The supplicants always spoke of the husbands they would be joined with following the ceremony.  After Bera, I thought that perhaps they did not know themselves what was to happen.  But they always knew, it was only I who was foolish enough to believe the lies.”

Darcy says nothing, just waits.

“Bera was different,” he says finally.  “She was not afraid of me.”  His eyes flick to Darcy, intent on her.  “Was it you there, and not her?”

“She wanted you.  She chose her actions.”

Loki’s eyes close for a moment.  In pain or relief, she doesn’t know.  “When I returned to Asgard, after Bera, I asked my broth-“  He cuts off, flinching.  “I asked Thor about the supplicants sent to him, and to the Allfather before us.  Both always took the girls, of course.  Their supplicants always wanted them, never cringed from _their_ touch.  And Thor always remained to watch the girls joined to their husbands.  Their children, after, were venerated as the children of the gods.”  His lips draw back in a tight grimace.  “It was only the touch of Loki Laufeyson which the supplicants reviled.  It was only my presence which tainted them so much that they were fit only for death.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say.  She searches for something, for _anything_ , but before she finds words, he turns away, presenting her with his back.

“Whatever magics you are using to invade my memories, whatever _punishment_ this is designed-“ He breaks off again, looking back over his shoulder.  She has a glimpse of that shadowed boy before his face hardens again.  “It matters not, mortal.  You can do nothing to me.  Leave me.”

And she does.

In the guard room, she closes the gate, switches the monitors off.  She leaves them off during the day, and when Loki’s other trays are delivered, she simply packages up the food, slips them into the bag for Beth and Ravi.

She lies on the couch, stares at the ceiling.  Tries not to think about the dreams - the _memories_.  She drinks cup after cup of coffee, until her stomach twists with nausea and her hands shake.  Her body is unused to the caffeine now, but she keeps drinking.  The last thing she wants to do now is sleep.

She does not go back into the cell.

All the same, she is aware of him, a shadow in her mind.

At the end of her shift, she stuffs the packet of chocolate espresso beans into her pocket.  Leaves the bag Jane gave her beneath the desk, but shoulders the one containing items for Beth.

She pauses, staring at the wall shared between the guard room and cell.  Knows, somehow, that he’s looking at her.  For all she knows, he can see through the damn concrete.  

She takes a step towards the gate.

“Fucking hell, Darcy,” she says.  “He’s the god of lies.  It’s all he knows how to do.”

_No.  There is more to him, if you will see it._

Darcy shakes her head, as though she can dislodge that voice through sheer movement and will.  Turns and leaves the guard room.

 

 

*

 

Her building has grown tendrils, wires and tubes reaching out to connect it with buildings on all sides.  It looks strangely organic, like some eldritch vine, or some kind of underwater creature stranded in the city, pinned to the concrete, a specimen on display.

As Darcy approaches, a girl crawls out of the window of a neighbouring building.  Darcy recognises it as a place she had gone to once or twice for yoga classes.  The paisley curtains have been ripped away, the glass smashed out of the window.  The girl moves nimbly, a spool of wire looped over one shoulder.  She takes a breath and dives across the alleyway at the next building, almost missing the window she’s aiming for.  She appears unflustered, just swings there twice, then hauls herself up and vanishes into the new building.

It feels like there are people everywhere.  In all of the windows, she sees movement: at one, a woman hangs new curtains, at another, a teenage boy dances, headphones plugged into his ears.  Darcy wonders if he has her stolen iPod, surprises herself by not caring,  It feels strange, having so many people here.  It feels oppressive.

In her building, the elevator has frozen between floors, the doors jammed open with a length of pipe.  Inside, she can see the legs of an embracing couple, both of them, as far as she can see, naked.  It reminds her of the dreams, and she moves away quickly, heads towards the stairs.

When she arrives at her apartment, she stops so quickly that she has to brace herself against the wall to keep from falling.

Her front door has been removed, the door frame showing the bites of what she presumes was a crow bar.  She glances down the hallway, and sees that the doors have been removed from every apartment; she had been too preoccupied to notice.

When she steps over the threshold, she sees the door propped up against the wall.  The locks have been prised off, the wood where they had been attached splintered and raw.  It looks like broken bone, like it should be leaking marrow or sap or blood.

Again, she feels nothing, looking at the door.  She supposes that she should be angry, but she just feels a kind of hollow resignation.

Through the window she can see Stark Tower glowing bright in the darkness.  If she looked close enough, she knew that those rooms on the nineteenth floor would be dark.

“They don’t belong to you, Darcy,” she says to herself.  “You’re not a part of any of it, and you know it.  Don’t even pretend.”

“Hello?”  Beth’s voice comes from the bedroom.

Darcy finds her curled up in the bed, a tattered magazine open on her lap.  Ravi is asleep next to her, surrounded by a nest made from a pile of Darcy’s sweaters.  Beth presses a finger to her lips, pulls herself out of bed and pads into the kitchen,  Darcy follows her.

“Sorry about the doors,” Beth says, hitching herself up to sit cross-legged on the kitchen counter.  “Ozy made a declaration this afternoon that no doors should exist in any of the buildings.  You know, everything belongs to everyone, all of that.”

“No doors at all?” Darcy asks.  “Not even on the bathrooms?”

“Nope.” Beth tugs at the hem of her sweater.  The green and red wool is beginning to unravel. “That way no one can hide anything.  Right?”

Darcy looks around the room that she had, until now, thought of as her kitchen.  All of the appliances are gone, except the microwave.  When she looks back into the living room, she sees that the television is gone, the couch frame missing, but its cushions piled up in a corner.  Her books are gone too, and their shelves.  Even the crappy prints she had on the walls are gone, only rectangles of pale paint left behind.  

The Stark laptop remains, its shielding closed tight.

“Everything belongs to everyone.”  Darcy’s hand goes to where her gold cross is hidden beneath her sweater.  She had that, still, at least.  None of the other stuff mattered.

“I managed to talk Ozy into letting us keep this as our space,” Beth says.  She leans forward, still plucking at the hem of her sweater.  There are bruises on her knuckles, darkening to purple.  “Even though everything is communal, the baby needs a solid place to sleep.  So Morrigan says.  She says that moving him around all the time would be…oh, I forget, I just know it’s bad.”  She pulls harder at the sweater, several stitches popping.  “I thought about trying to make some kind of bed with the cushions, but he conked out on the bed.  Sorry.”

Darcy shrugs.  “What happened to your hand?”

Spots of colour blossom on Beth’s cheeks.  “I…tried to use your computer.  Ravi was crying, and I thought maybe there’d be a video or something on it to distract him.”

She’s a bad liar, Darcy notes.  But she nods anyway, allows Beth the lie, knowing that it was likely Ozy who put her up to it.  Like everything else, it barely seems to matter.  Frankly, she doesn’t care what happens to the damn laptop right now.  She doesn’t think she’ll care about anything ever again.

“Are you okay?” Beth asks.  “You kind of look like hell.”

“I kind of feel like it.”  Darcy remembers the bag she’s carrying.  She sets it down on the counter next to Beth.  “I got some stuff, for you and Ravi.”

Beth reaches out a hand to the red canvas, pulls it back.  “Everything belongs to everyone.”

“And Ravi will starve without this.  There’s formula, some vitamins.  Some fresh food, too.  If you eat it now, no one will ever know.”

Beth traces a finger over the logo on the side of the bag.  “You work for Stark.”

“Not really.  I’m just…filling in?”

In the next room, Ravi makes a sound, half whimper, half laugh.

Beth’s fingers curls around the edge of the bag, worrying at it the same way she’d worried at her sweater.  “What about you?  I could…uh…pay you?”  She arches her back into what she probably thinks is a sensual pose.  To Darcy, she looks like a kid playing with her mother’s clothes.

“I don’t need payment,” Darcy says.  “It’s okay, really.”

“Why are you even here, if you work for Stark?  They must have space in that big building.”

Out of the window, Darcy can still see Stark Tower, can feel those dark rooms on the nineteenth floor.  “There’s no place there for me.  I’m not a scientist, I’m not a superhero.”

“I don’t know.”  Beth opens the bag, peers inside.  Her eyes light up.  “Anyone who can get stuff like this now is pretty much a superhero to me.”

Darcy wraps her arms around herself.  She still has the jitters from all the coffee she drank, and her hands are shaking.  Hell, it feels like her _heart_ is shaking.

Ravi starts whimpering louder, the sound building to a thin wail.  

“Can you help me make up the formula?” Beth asks.  “I don’t really know how.”

It takes some scavenging from the other apartments to gather the needed supplies, but they manage.  It’s soothing, Darcy thinks, boiling the water, mixing up the formula, while Beth rocks Ravi in an effort to soothe him.  Finally, the bottle is ready, and Ravi sucks at it, looking happy for the first time Darcy has known.

Beth wanders out into the hallway, feeding Ravi, poking her head into apartments and talking to people.  Darcy clears up the kitchen, takes the opportunity to use the bathroom.  Makes a mental note to ensure that she uses the bathroom in Stark Tower as much as possible.

Darcy walks a slow circle around the apartment.  Nothing feels like its hers now.  The coffee is starting to wear off, her limbs growing heavier with each step.  She doesn’t want to sleep, but she doesn’t think that her body is going to give her any choice.

She considers the bed, but Ravi’s little nest is still there, and she doesn’t want to disturb it.  She goes back into the main room, considers the cushions.  Picks up one, hugs it to her chest.  Considers just lying down there.

Laughter as Beth wanders past the door, a younger girl with pink and blonde hair following in her wake.

Not there, then. 

Darcy walks back through the apartment.  Finds herself at her tiny walk-in wardrobe.  There are still some clothes hanging up, including a bright yellow dress that is definitely not hers.  The mismatched boots are still there, too.  She looks down at her own feet; she’s still wearing their mates, hadn’t even noticed.

She gathers more of the cushions, erects them to make something of a barrier where the wardrobe door had been.  Pulls down sweaters to use as blankets, curls up on the cushion.  She only has a moment to register how uncomfortable her makeshift bed is, and then she is pulled down into the darkness of sleep.

 

 

*

 

She is falling.

She has always been falling.

She will always be falling.

There is only the emptiness of space, the darkness where stars should be.  The knowledge that she is alone, that she has been cast out.  That she is damned.

Images flicker in the darkness from time to time.  A man, one eye hidden behind gold.  Skin that shifts to blue.  Another man, his mouth shaping a word that should be familiar, but means nothing.

None of it means anything but pain, here, in the dark, in the falling.

And then hard hands close around an ankle that is and is not hers, pull her away.  She slams down hard against rough rock, looks up into burning blue eyes.  The emptiness is gone, the pain, and then there is only deep, bottomless fear.

There is a smile, a cold laugh and blue light.

And then there is only heat upon heat, her flesh melting, her bones blasting to ash.

The pain of being remade, drawn back together by the blue light.

And the blasting heat, again.

Again.

Again.

 

 

*

 

The building is burning.

Darcy launches herself up, blinking against the smoke, the flames.  Everything smells like searing flesh, like burning bone.  She coughs, launches herself out of bed, running for the door-

-and slams hard against the wall of the wardrobe.

She blinks again.  There is no smoke, no flame, nothing but the shimmering heat quickly ebbing from her skin.

“Another fucking dream,” she says.  “Thanks a lot for that one, Loki.”

She stops then, remembering the dream.  Had that been a memory, the burning, the falling?

“God of lies, God of lies,” she says.  “Fucking God of lies.”

Her stomach turns, then, and she dashes to the bathroom.  She retches into the toilet, brings up nothing.  She is almost afraid to look into the mirror, certain that she will see bone-deep burns, scorched skin.  There is nothing, her skin smooth and unblemished.  She leans over the sink, splashes water on her face.  It’s hard to believe that she used to spend hours on her hair and makeup in this room.  That there used to be something before all of this.

“Darcy?  You okay?”

Beth stands in the doorway, a look of concern on her face.  She has Ravi strapped to her back again, the boy sleeping contentedly.

“Just bad dreams.”  Darcy rinses her mouth with water from the tap.  It tastes like earth, like iron.  “Lots of bad dreams.”

“You only just went to sleep, though.”

Darcy goes out into the main living area.  The sky is still dark.  The dream had felt like it had lasted forever, long enough that days should have passed, if not the single night.

“Well, shit.”  She has the chocolate espresso beans still, but if all the coffee hadn’t kept her awake, she doubted they would do much.  “I need a fucking nightclub.  Lots of loud music, lots of people.”

“Well…”  Beth is fiddling with the hem of her sweater again, wearing the loosened yarn to threads.  “You could come with us.”

Darcy pushes back her hair.  She feels nothing when her fingers encounter tangles, not even when she pulls hard.  As though everything has been burned away.  And fuck it, she wants to feel _something._   _Anything_.

“Where?” she asks.

Beth grins, rising up onto her toes and bouncing like a child.  “To the labyrinth.”

 

 

 


	11. Labyrinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to those who are following along with this - you give me the incentive to keep writing quickly!

“Labyrinth?” Darcy asks.  The word shivers down her spine, twists through her bones.  She forces a smile.  “Is David Bowie going to be there wearing tights?”

Beth looks blankly at her.

“Maybe a minotaur?  Or just a whole lot of weird black corridors and stairs, scratched out words, the word _house_ written in blue?”

Beth, if anything, goes even blanker. “Huh?”

“Nevermind.”  Darcy turns away from the window.  “Movie reference, mythology reference, literature reference.  _House of Leaves_.  Awesome book.  I have two copies, one just to write notes in.”  Darcy turns, hand extended to the bookcase to point out her copies.  Remembers too late that the bookcases are gone, along with the books.  For the first time, she feels the loss, like something pinching her heart.  “Well, I had two copies, anyway.”

“I never read much.  The dyslexia made it hard, and I just gave up beyond what they forced us into at school.”  Beth shrugs.  “Never had the money to watch movies much, either.”

Darcy cannot look away from the empty places where the bookcases stood.  The whole apartment is full of empty spaces.  “Well.  Labyrinth?”

Beth bounces on her toes, as if the conversation didn’t even happen.  “You’ll just have to wait and see it.”

 

*

 

They walk together to Central Park.  The streets are empty and silent, but Darcy catches glimpses of life in windows they pass: the flicker of candles, the inconstant glow of torches growing low on batteries.  From time to time, she sees a business lit up, she assumes by a generator, though she cannot see anyone inside.

They are a few streets from the park when she hears the music.  It’s an atonal kind of humming, like a human voice but unlike.  Darcy assumes that its electronic, since it’s nothing like any instrument she had ever heard.  Another street, and she smells the smoke. It is thick and heady, sinking into her skin and hair, twining into her lungs.  She starts to question Beth, but the girl presses her fingers to her lips, indicating silence.

The echo of their footsteps sounds in counterpoint to the beat of the music, the bass throbbing, it seems, from the very concrete beneath their feet.  Looking down, Darcy sees that she’s still wearing that mismatched pair of boots.  She can’t remember if she even took them off to sleep.  Beth is wearing the other mismatched pair, the mirror image to hers.  The boots are a little large for her, and her footsteps stutter and slide.  It makes Darcy suddenly uncomfortable, Beth wearing her boots, her sweater.  As though she’s trying to wear Darcy’s skin.

The discomfort is fleeting, because then they arrive at the park.

A great pile of hacked branches has been stacked to either side of the park entrance.  Small lights play from within the leaves and branches; it takes Darcy a moment to recognise the green of chemical lights.  When she looks down the street, she sees that cars and other vehicles have been parked close to one another to form a barrier around the park’s perimeter.  In places, the cars have been stacked on top of one another, though she doesn’t even know how anyone managed that.  There’s even a bus, and several of the tourist horse-drawn carriages, sans horses.

Beth squeezes Darcy’s hand once.  Her fingers are cold as ice.  “You have to enter alone. It’s part of the ritual.”

She moves ahead of Darcy, is swallowed by the darkness in the park.  Several of the chemical lights flicker and die; several more flare into life, though Darcy doesn’t know how anyone could have activated them, hidden as they are in the brushwood.

The green light reminds her of Loki.  That thought is enough to make her move forward into the darkness, away from the green.

The music rises around her, a cresting wave, then the darkness crashes over her, swallows her.  The music slows, each note drawing out in a vibrato that she feels against her exposed skin.  And then even that is gone, and there is only the sound of her own heart.

“Do you come as a supplicant?” a voice asks.  It is neither male nor female, and it has no accent, no shape to its words.

_Supplicant._   Again, Darcy thinks of Loki.  And Bera coming to him, innocent and afraid.  Had her fear been due to Loki himself, or the knowledge of what was to happen to her after the time in the cave.

Darcy shudders, and the darkness slides like velvet-gloved hands over her skin.

She wants to be anywhere but here.  Wherever the hell _here_ even is.

The voice makes a curious, wordless sound, something like measuring, like indecision.  And then the darkness is gone, and she is standing inside the entrance to the park again.

Sensation rushes in: the softness of trampled grass beneath her boots, the incense smoke thick in the air, that strange atonal music.  Another noise sounds, and she turns to see a man dressed in black cracking a chemical light, sliding into a space between the tangled branches.  His eyes slide away from her, and he moves away into the shadows.

Of the park itself, she can see little _but_ shadows.  Here and there are collections of chemical lights, like tiny constellations, but apart from that, the only light comes from the stars above.  Somehow, even the light from Stark Tower is blocked out.  It feels as though the city is gone, as though she is in an ancient, wild place.

“Darcy!”

Beth is standing a short distance away, a tall, slender man standing beside her.  Both of them are wearing dark hooded robes.  Beth has her hood up, and when she turns, Darcy sees that the back of her robe has been slit across to allow Ravi to peek out.  He stares around himself with wide eyes, makes no sound.

Beth gestures for Darcy to join them.  Darcy crosses the small distance between them, each step seeming to take forever.  In a small tree she passes, a censer billows blue smoke.  The spirals of smoke twist lazily, dispersing slowly into the air.  It smells like church incense, the frankincense and myrrh so familiar from her childhood, but there is something else there.  Something deeper, something that winds into Darcy’s blood, more potent than any drug she has ever tried.

The tall man watches Darcy intently as she moves to join them.  He has his hood pushed back, revealing close-cropped hair that curls tightly against his scalp.  In the darkness, his eyes look black, impossible to tell their true colour.

“Darcy, this is Ozy,” Beth says when Darcy joins them.  “Ozymandias.”

Darcy has to stop herself from doing a double take.  He looks so _normal_ , not anything like a man who calls himself Ozymandias should.

“Darcy,” Ozy says.  His voice is light and pleasant, without accent.  He holds out a hand to her; his nails are neatly trimmed, his fingers ringless.

Darcy takes his hand; he shakes hers in a firm, cool grip.  The cuff of his robe rides up with a movement, and she can see the edge of a tattoo, something that undulates like a snake up his wrist.

“I am glad that you could join us,” Ozy says.  “Glad, too, for what you have been doing for Beth and little Ravi.  She told us of your kindness.”

Darcy shrugs a shoulder.  She wants to look away, but Ozy’s eyes hold her.  “You can’t leave a baby to starve, can you?”

“Beth also told us that you work for Tony Stark.”  Ozy smiles, revealing crooked front teeth.  “Now, don’t worry, Darcy, we won’t press you to provide anything for us.  I assume it is your presence in the building which inspired Stark to provide us with electricity, and for that alone, we thank you.”

He’s still holding her hand.  He kneels down, and pressed his forehead to her knuckles, a curious gesture.  His forehead is as cool and smooth as her fingers.

He is smiling again when he stands.  “Avail yourself of the refreshments, the entertainment.  And when the time comes, if you wish, you may enter the labyrinth when the gates are flung wide.”

He squeezes her hand, and then, finally, releases it.  Darcy still feels his touch even after he has melted into the small groups of people milling about the park.  Beth watches him go, her expression adoring.

“Isn’t he _amazing?_ ” she asks, clasping her hands together.  “It’s like this world was just waiting for him to save it.”

Darcy takes in a deep breath, wanting to clear her head.  All it manages to do is have her inhale more of the smoke.  It tastes thick in her mouth, as though she has chewed on ashes.

“Is there somewhere where the air is clearer?” Darcy asks.  “The smoke’s kind of getting to me.”

“It should be better around the food.”  Beth takes Darcy’s arm, leads her past the groups of people.  Few of them pay the two girls any attention, though Darcy catches people smiling at Ravi as they pass.  “I need a drink, anyway.”

A series of trestle tables have been set up along the side of the park.  Women and men, dressed in black as the man with the chemical lights had been, move silently behind the tables.  There are several pots of soup and flat bread.  Jugs of water and what looks like reconstituted juice, as well as bottles of beer and wine, all warm.

Beth snags two bottles of beer, hands one to Darcy.

“Where did all this come from?” Darcy asks.  She holds the warm beer, but doesn’t drink.

Beth pops the top of her beer, tosses it into a nearby bin.  “People bring what they can.  There are lots of caches around the city, if you know where to look.  Lots of people left stuff behind.”

Darcy twists her beer bottle in her hands.  Pops off the top, sends it after Beth’s.  She misses, and it rattles to the ground instead.  Beth moves immediately, scooping it up and tossing it into the bin.

“One of Ozy’s rules,” she says.  “We don’t leave anything behind.  In the morning, the park should look like we’ve never been here.”

Darcy looks over behind the trestles.  In the shadows, she can just see the shapes of cars stacked on top of one another to form a wall.  “How is that even possible?  People leave signs behind, no matter what.”

“Anything is possible,” Beth says, taking a swig from her beer.

That strange music swells again, then fades away suddenly, leaving only echoes.  Beth immediately grabs Darcy’s untouched beer and places it, and hers, back onto one of the trestle tables.  She grasps Darcy’s arm again and leads her through the park.  When Darcy starts to ask her a question, she presses her fingers against Darcy’s lips.  Beth’s skin smells like smoke.

The incense grows thicker again as they move away from the tables, Beth directing them expertly through the groups of people.  All are wearing the same dark hooded robes, and all have their hoods pulled up.  The night seems to grow darker as they move towards what Darcy thinks is the centre of the park.  Everything seems off, the park itself with its rocks and gardens replaced by an endless stretch of trampled grass. 

Beth stops suddenly, though Darcy can see nothing around them that indicates they’ve reached anything like a destination.  The light of the stars is gone, something like that velvet darkness Darcy had experienced  inside the boundary of the park pressing close.  Everything is silent; Darcy can’t even hear Beth’s breathing, though she can see the heaving of her chest well enough.

Beth presses her fingers against her lips, points to the ground, then steps away, fading into the darkness.

Thin panic rises in Darcy, then.  She has no idea what’s going on here, and she certainly knows nothing of what is happening here.  Hands slide a hooded robe over her shoulder, pulls up her hood, though when she looks, she cannot see who it is who has garbed her thus.  She wants to push the hood away, but cannot seem to raise the energy to lift her hands.

Everything is still.

Everything is waiting.

A single drumbeat breaks the silence, joined by another, then another.  Soon, dozens of drums are sounding around the park, all of them beating out something like the rhythm of a heartbeat.  Darcy feels her heart slow to fall into the rhythm of the beat.

The memory of Bera rises in her.  They drummed the beat for her, too, before the knife was drawn across her throat.

She feels dampness at the place where the knife had cut.  Without touching it, Darcy cannot tell if it sweat or blood.  She’s not even sure she wants to know.

The drums increase their tempo until the beat is a broken flurry of percussion.  Then, abruptly, they fall silent.

As one, a circle of candles flare into life.  There must have been more of the black-clad workers lighting them, but they fall back from the light so quickly that Darcy doesn’t catch sight of them.

She blinks as her vision adjusts to the sudden light.  First, she sees the ground surrounding the candles.  The lawn has been torn away, the soil there rent and ripped, pale roots rising up here and there like exhumed bones.  Everything smells like a forest after the rain, like lightning might strike at any moment.

Beyond the circle of light is a solid wall of darkness.  Darcy can see nothing of its details; all she can tell is that it is a massive thing that takes up most of the park.

Ozy appears, another candle held in his cupped palms.  He stands there for a moment, silent, uncaring of the molten wax that drips and pools against his bare skin.

He looks at the flickering flame for a long time.  When he looks up, the light is gathered in his eyes, and they shine like amber, brighter than the candles.

“ _Turning and turning in the widening gyre,_

_The falcon cannot hear the falconer;_

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,_

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”_

He pauses for a long moment, his shining eyes moving across the crowd.  They rest on Darcy, and his lips curve in a small smile before he continues.

“ _The blood-dimmed tide is loosed,_

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”_

He finishes quoting, though Darcy knows that the poem goes on for longer.  She knows it well; it was a favourite of her mother’s, in the once upon a time before things went bad.

Her stomach twists, and she would have moved away, but Beth is there suddenly, her hand a claw around Darcy’s arm.

Ozy’s gaze moves around the crowd again; it seems as though his eyes rest on each person individually.  Darcy sees something of what attracts people to him.  It’s a rare thing, to feel as though someone _sees_ you, especially in these times.

Ozy smiles.  “Let the labyrinth be open.  Let who is called come forth to enter.”

He blows out the candle he holds.  All of the other candles go out simultaneously, the velvet dark rolling over the world, through the world.

Darcy blinks frantically, but the dark does not clear from her eyes.

Ozy’s words echo through her mind: _the blood-dimmed tide is loosed…_

She takes a step forward, though she doesn’t have any awareness of telling her body to do so.  Another step, and low, sibilant laughter rolls through the darkness.

A light flares in the darkness, and suddenly Loki is there.  He is transparent, his skin shimmering with opalescence, as though he is carved from mother-of pearl.  His mouth works frantically, but she hears nothing.  His message is clear, even without words.  _Do not take another step.  This way lies dragons_.

_You’re the only dragon in this world_ , Darcy wants to say, but like Loki, no sound comes from her lips.

The darkness curls tendrils around her, pulling her forward.  She takes another step, and the image of Loki dissolves, a flame snuffed out.

One more step, and the darkness rolls away.

She is standing in front of a wall.  It is at least six feet high, and instead of being made from stone or brick or any other building material, it is made from everything.  From where she stands, she can see a finely carved chair slotted in next to crumpled clothing, a baby’s rattle, some books and records and a Monet print framed in cheap plastic.  More objects are wedged into the wall that she cannot identify.  Her fingers itch with the desire to remove the books from the wall so she can see their titles, but she makes herself keep her hands by her sides.  Knowing that if even one thing is removed, it will all come tumbling down.

This is what Ozy and his group have done with the things left behind.  With _her_ things, she supposes.  Again, she observes that fact almost impartially, though she thinks that she should be angry.  She should feel something.

She looks up at the starless sky, the void pressing down.  Maybe it was better than she didn’t feel anything.  After all, she lives in a world where gods and superheroes are real.

“And I’m just Darcy Lewis,” she says to the wall.  “No one at all.”

A deep groaning sound rumbles from behind the wall.  Darcy starts, adrenaline rushing through her veins.  It sounds like some great beast, waiting there.  Like the minotaur that she joked about.

“That one can just stay a myth, okay?” she asks.

Laughter echoes around her, the sound just on the edge of her limit of hearing, so she feels the sound more than hears it, like hands jittering against her skin.

That deep groan comes again, and then the wall before her begins to move.  It splits, two sides swinging out like doors.  Beyond, she can see another of the walls built from detritus, a gap leading deeper into whatever lies beyond.

“No David Bowie, then,” she says to the opened doors.  “Colour me disappointed on that point, at least.”

She glances behind her, and her heart skips a beat.  The park is gone, only another labyrinth wall behind her.  She fights the urge to beat her fists against it, to demand that she be let out.

“So I don’t get to choose this, either,” she says.  “Great.  Just another thing that Darcy gets swept up in.”

There is no answer.  The labyrinth is absolutely silent, the black sky above completely still.  She wonders briefly how she can even see anything, since there is no light that she can ascertain, decides quickly enough that it’s probably best not to even think about it.

“Just think of it as a dream,” she tells herself.  “Just start walking.  Don’t they say that you just keep turning right, and you’ll find your way out of the labyrinth again?”

There is a porcelain doll in the wall opposite, its black eyes watching her.  Her grandmother had given her a similar doll when she was a child, and her mother had placed it on a shelf in Darcy’s room.  Darcy had been unable to sleep that night, staring at the doll, half convinced that it was going to blink, to move from its shelf.  The next morning she’d turning it around to face the wall.  Easier to ignore it, when its eyes weren’t on you.

She reaches out to the doll in the wall.  A sharp blue stab in her fingers, like the pinch of an electric shock, stops her from touching it before she even gets close.

“Right,” she says, rubbing her hand against her jeans.  “Don’t touch the walls.  Keep turning right.  I can do this.”

She starts walking, her feet moving without thought to the rhythm of the Yeats poem Ozy had quoted.  And though she’d never been aware of learning the poem, she finds its lines running through her mind as she walks, taking right turn after right turn.

“What rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born,” she repeats over and over.  She walks and walks, blisters forming and bursting on her heels, and never seems to get anywhere.

When she arrives back at that porcelain doll, she clenches her fists hard enough that her nails bite into her palms.  “Well, fuck.”  She stomps her foot, ignored the slick slide of blood in her boots.  “Fuck!  And get this fucking poem out of my head.  Could you be more cliched, Ozy?  Couldn’t you at least find something that people haven’t quoted a thousand times?”

And then she is running, flying through the labyrinth, all thought of turning right forgotten, just wanting to be moving, to be going somewhere, _anywhere_.

That laughter echoes around her again, and then, suddenly, the labyrinth is gone.

She is standing in front of that house, the curtain fluttering in the breeze, its white edge stained by blood.

Darcy shakes her head, a movement that is almost convulsive.  “No.  No, no, no, no, _no_.  Take me back to the damn labyrinth!  Anywhere but here.”  She falls to her knees.  The earth beneath her knees is soft and damp, trampled by the press of boots.  “ _Please_.”

There is no answer but the breeze.


	12. House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks. I appreciate you all.
> 
> And there is a serious lack of Loki in this chapter. Never fear, he will be back in the next one!
> 
> Heads up that there is mention of child abuse (daughter abused by her father), so if that's a trigger for you, you may want to avoid this chapter.

Darcy takes a step back.

And another, her hands reaching out behind her.

It takes her another two steps, her hands encountering nothing each time, before she realises that she is looking for Loki’s presence.  The last time she dreamed her way to this place, he was there behind her.  Ever since she walked into the hallway outside his cell, he has been a fixture in her dreams.

He is not here now.

Which means that either he cannot get here.  Wherever _here_ is, really.

“Or this isn’t a dream,” she says.

A breeze winds past, snatching her words from her lips.  She remembers walking the labyrinth, the velvet darkness, the midnight laughter.  Running, and then just being here, as though she stepped through a door.

She pinches her wrist.  Presses her nails into her palms.  The sensations are oddly distant, but they are there.  More importantly, she does not wake up.

On the air, she can smell the pine from the nearby woods, the straggling blossoms of the white rose that climbs the fence, paint peeling beneath long thorns.  That fence had been painted white once, when the house was new.  Now there is little of the paint remaining, the bare wood silvering in the sun.  Deeper, there is the scent of dry earth, of land that has not seen rain in a long time.

This melange of scents is the scent of her childhood, pervading every memory that she has of being here.

The stained white curtain moves in and out of the window, almost elegant as it undulates.

There is a sound that she recognises as the windchimes hung above the door, though she cannot see them move, and everything changes.

The paint on the fence is whole, only a few chips knocked away around the gate.  Darcy knows that if she lined up those chips with her childhood fingers, they would match.  She can still feel the sensation of the thick paint sliding beneath her nails.  There had been splinters, too, and she had been forced to run to her father to have him remove them.  Forced to confess her vandalism, and bear the brunt of his anger.

The thought of her father brings hot tears.  She blinks them away, focuses on the house.

The land behind the house is greener, and the climbing rose has been trimmed, dead flowers and rosehips removed neatly.  The patch of lawn between house and fence is green, free from weeds.  The front window is closed, the white curtains behind still and unstained.  The potted herbs on the porch are young, little more than tender shoots breaking free from the soil.

The windchimes ring again, and the front door opens.  A younger Darcy bursts out, her hair bound in tangled pigtails, a tablecloth purloined from her mother’s linen cupboard tied around her shoulders as a makeshift cape.

Darcy watches her younger self circle around the lawn, arms outstretched.  She is smiling, and then the door opens again, and she realises what memory this is.

Her hands go behind her again, clutching at the empty air.  Her heart hammers against her ribs.

“I don’t want to see this,” she says.

An echo of that laughter.  The scene does not fade.  If anything, it becomes more vivid, the colours and sensations brighter.  Darcy feels her awareness divide, so she is at once seeing things from her adult and childhood eyes.  She’d forgotten how tall her father had always looked to her.  To her adult eyes, he is only medium height, and slightly stooped.  Too small.

“Hey, bug,” he says.  His voice is thick, probably from the whiskey that he hides beneath the bathroom cabinet.  The whiskey that he doesn’t think anyone else knows about.  “Saving the world, little girl?”

He reaches out, and Darcy both watches and experiences her younger body stiffening, glancing towards the door.

“Your mother isn’t home, bug,” he father says, his breath sour with whiskey.

Darcy wants to close her eyes, to pull away.  But she had done neither, and so she did neither.  She can only stand there as he leans close, his grizzled cheek against hers, his breath hot against her neck.

She counts one, two, three.  It always helps, the counting.  It is something else to focus on.

She gets to nineteen when he jerks away, his body stiffening as hers did.  He says nothing, just stares at her, something like her name strangled in his throat.

And then he drops to the ground, still.

“Look away, look away, look away,” adult Darcy says.  Her hands are curled into fists so hard that she can feel blood welling.

She does not, and so she cannot.  The daylight fades, and she is still standing there, her father’s body cooling, when her mother and brothers return home.  She relives their questioning, their focus on the thing that she does not understand: what were they doing, that her father was half naked?  Child Darcy did not answer, because it was their secret, and you should always keep secrets, no matter what.

Her mother straps her, and she sits through the funeral in her new black dress with the stiff lace collar, trying and failing to find a comfortable way to ease her bruised skin against the cold wood of the church pew.

Only after the funeral does time blessedly skip.

She is older now by a few years, and the house has changed again.  It is sparse now, and all of the books are gone.  There is only the white Bible on the shelf now.  There is church every day, and once a week Darcy must submit to the strap for her sins.

Her mother tells her that she is sin itself, that she killed her father, that she seduced him.

For a long time, Darcy believes her.  Attends church every day with her, studies the Bible.  Tries to find an answer to why she was born so wrong.

It takes longer for her to begin to question, longer for her to resist.

She moves out after high school, deliberately choosing a college as far away from her childhood home as possible.  She picks political science as a major, because it is as far from her old life as possible.

She becomes someone else.

And then Thor arrives, and the world changes again.

Darcy lives through it all again: the lab being emptied, the Destroyer, Thor and Jane.  Thor leaving.

And then, afterwards, the phone call.

The house changes, becomes that broken place again, the stained curtain dancing in and out of the window.  And Darcy is walking towards it, opening the rotting gate, crossing the weed-choked lawn.  The windchimes ring as she opens the door.

“I didn’t see this,” she says as her body steps over the threshold.  “I never came back here after I left.”

Her body keeps on moving, taking her into the living room.  Things have changed again as she walked, the window open but the curtains unstained.  The furniture has been removed from the room, the only thing remaining the statue of Jesus in an alcove, a candle burning before him.  The tiny shelf beneath is thick with drips of wax.

The room smells of neglect, of rot, and of something sharper, something Darcy doesn’t immediately recognise.

Her brothers enter the room.  Both are adults now, and both look too much like the face Darcy sees in the mirror.  Their hair has been shorn close to their scalp, and they are garbed in white linen, their feet left bare.  They cross to the alcove, kneel before it, heads bowed.

A heartbeat, and then Darcy’s mother enters.  She is reciting from the Bible, passages that Darcy recognises as being from the Book of Revelations.  Under one arm she carries the family Bible.  Under the other arm she carries a shotgun.

Darcy cannot speak now.  Cannot look away, cannot close her eyes.

Her mother finishes her sermon, lifts the shotgun.  Fires once, twice.  Blood spatters on the walls, on the curtains.  Darcy’s brothers fall to the floor, their bodies meeting the ground with the same finality as her father’s body had.

Her mother kneels now, heedless of the blood seeping into her own white garments.  Murmurs, crosses herself, then reaches up and topples the candle from the shelf.

 _Whiskey_ , Darcy realises.  It’s whiskey she can smell, rubbing alcohol.  Everything flammable.

Everything slows down, and she sees her mother’s face just before the fire explodes.  The air is sucked into the room, the curtains dancing in the window.  Her mother looks _beatific_.  Like she is accomplishing something wonderful.

She looks up at Darcy, and her eyes flood solid black.  “It’s the end of the world, sweetheart.  You should have been here with us.”

Everything burns.

 

*

 

Darcy is in the velvet darkness again.

Her skin prickles with the memory of that heat.  Nausea twists in her stomach.  Bad enough that her brothers had been shot by her mother, but she had never known that her mother had burned alive.  Had never wanted to know.

“Do you want me to take it away?”  The voice is as black and velvet as the darkness around her.

Darcy looks around, trying to see the speaker.  There is nothing but the shadows crowding around her, a total absence of light.

“Do you want me to take it away?” the voice asks again.  “The memory, the pain.  I can take it all away.”

Heat shimmers over Darcy’s skin, and she feels the air moving against her as it had the moment before the fire took hold.  She remembers the look on her mother’s face.  She remembers the look on her father’s face.

“Yes,” she says, because she cannot say anything else.  She cannot live with this, not any more.  She will not.  “Take it away.  _Please_.”

Something moves against her left arm, like a thin blade of ice curling around and around against her skin.

“A fitting sacrifice, supplicant,” the voice says, and then the cold pulls away.  “A fitting beginning.”

Darcy feels the pain inside her curl up, shrivel like paper going brittle and burning in an oven.  And then it is only ashes, all of the memories, all of the pain, and she is empty, and she is numb, and she doesn’t remember a thing about her childhood or her family.

And it feels _good_.

 

 

 


	13. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which creepy things happen.
> 
> And yes, I promised Loki in this chapter. There will definitely be Loki in the next chapter, don't worry! I am in Loki withdrawal myself.

There is a tree growing in the centre of the labyrinth.

This is the first thing that Darcy notices when she stumbles out of the darkness.  The tree is larger than any she has ever seen.  It is _immense_ , its branches seeming to reach high enough to brush against the stars themselves.  Its trunk is pale and glowing, as though it is bathed in moonlight, though there is no sign of the moon in the sky.  Its leaves whisper against one another, the sound like a thousand voices whispering secrets.

The centre of the labyrinth is not large: a rough square perhaps several metres across.  One entrance on each side of the square leads back into the labyrinth.  Each of the walls appears identical, the same objects slotted together to form the solid structure.

Darcy has taken a step towards the tree when she hears someone behind her.  She turns just in time to see a man stumble from the labyrinth.  He falls to his knees, his robe billowing around him as he collapses.  His spine arches, as though he is fighting nausea or pain.  He stays taut for a few seconds, and then he gasps and rocks back onto his heels.  He pushes the hood of his robe back and Darcy sees the gleam of his scalp in the thin light cast by the tree.

He stares at her, though she doubts that he’s seeing her at all.  His eyes are bloodshot, ringed by shadows.  His scalp has been shaved bare, and inexpertly, several deep nicks above his ears still oozing thick blood.

It is only something in the set of his mouth that makes her realise that she knows him.  “Max?”

He blinks rapidly, as though to clear away tears, though his eyes are so dry that she can hear his eyelids scrape against his corneas.

Darcy takes a slow step towards him.  Realises that she’s moving with the kind of non-aggressive movements people use when they expect to be attacked.  She arranges herself into something that she hopes looks vaguely casual.  “You don’t remember me, do you?”  She is unsurprised by that, to be honest.  Most men rarely bother to look higher than her chest to recognise her, and right now that’s covered by a half mile of black fabric.  “Darcy Lewis.  We met in the guard room beneath Stark Tower.”  Max blinks, his eyes focusing, unfocusing.  “Darcy, also known as the idiot who actually went through to the cell and got lumped with babysitting duty.” 

Max pulls himself to his feet.  His eyes focus, finally, and he smiles, his cheeks straining, tight and dry.  “Of course. Of course.  Darcy.”  He swallows, and she can hear the dryness of his throat.  “You traded your food for…for…”  His smile fades.

Something tightens in Darcy.  It’s the same kind of feeling that she got when she saw the Destroyer.  The sense that something is very, very wrong, and something bad is approaching, fast.

“Your daughter,” she says.  When Max says nothing, she continues.  “She was sick.  Vitamin deficiencies, I think?  Is she getting better, with the food and medicine?”

Max does that rapid blinking thing again.  He wavers on his feet.  “I can remember her, but I can’t remember her.  Like it happened to someone else, like I’m watching a film with no sound, like everything is numb.”  He rubs a hand over his scalp, pausing briefly, as though he has forgotten that it had been shaved.  “It was dark.  There was a voice.  Did you hear her, too?”

The memory of that velvet darkness wraps around Darcy, and some of that tight wrongness eases, unwinds.  She wraps her arms around her ribs, presses her fingers against her ribs.  “I heard it.  I was back…back…”  She realises that she’s bracing herself physically for the familiar wave of pain that always comes when she thinks about her family.  That house.

This time, the pain doesn’t come.  Just that soothing darkness, rocking her, holding her.

It’s like looking at someone else’s life, a black and white image in a world full of colours.  She remembers all the facts, but it as though it happened to someone else.  A fairy story, a half-remembered film.  No pain.  No trauma.

“She took it away,” Max says.  He smiles slowly, and she can fairly see the tension drain from him as he looks up at the tree.  Its light gathers in his eyes.  “My daughter.  Even with the food, the medicine, the doctors all said it was too late.  Too much damage done.  Time to make her comfortable.”  He draws in a deep breath, releases it in a sigh.  “I just walked out.  I had to move, to walk.  I didn’t know it, but I was looking for Ozy.  Looking for this.”  He smiles, a beatific light in his eyes.  “Everything is going to be okay, Darcy.  It really is.”

He flings his arms out wide.  The movement pulls his sleeves up, and Darcy sees that there is a mark on his right wrist.  It it etched in black, raised like a keloid scar: an abstract pattern of lines and angles, strangely beautiful for all of its dissonance.

Darcy can’t look away from it.  It is blacker than any tattoo she has ever seen, as black as the velvet darkness.

“What is that?” she asks.

Max stares at his arm for a moment.  “In there, I felt something moving against my skin.  Like a needle.  Like ice.”  He pushes his sleeve up to display the whole pattern.  Its shape echoes the imprint of someone’s hand wrapping around his wrist.  “It’s a mark of initiation.”

That feel of wrongness twists in Darcy again, surging stronger than the darkness.  “Into what?  The crazy hooded robe cult?”

“There is no need to keep up the facade, Darcy,” Ozy says, emerging from the labyrinth.  He walks upright, seeming taller here, his hood pushes back from his face.  In this light, his hair looks silver, his eyes grey.  “Here, you have no need for masks.”

“Masks?  I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about-“

He raises his hands, and her speech is cut off, her throat tightening.  At the same time, a band of cold wraps around her left wrist.

A thread of fear tightens in her as she pushed up her own sleeve.  Her mark is shaped the same as Max’s, though hers reaches further up her arm, almost to her elbow.  Her design is lacelike and flowing, like waves lapping at her skin.  She rubs at it, but the black does not budge.  There is no pain or bruising, just an odd numbness, as though the raised skin has been cauterised.

Ozy grasps their marked hands; his own cuffs ride up, and Darcy sees the edge of black marks on both of his wrists.  His fingers are heated against hers, as though he is burning with fever, though his face is cool and unflushed.  He says nothing, just smiles at them.

“Can I do it again?” Max asks.  “There’s so much weighing me down.  I want to be free of it all.”

Ozy’s smile widens.  “The labyrinth may only be entered on the night of the new moon.”

Max’s face droops in disappointment, the kind of exaggerated response that Darcy expects from a child, not a grown man.

Ozy leans close to Max, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.  “But, my brother, this night is not yet over.  There are a few moments left, and the labyrinth is still open.”

Max needs no more encouragement.  He turns and runs headlong into the nearest entrance and is gone from sight.

“Do you think that was a good idea?” Darcy asks.  “I think maybe he needed some time to think about things.  He sacrificed his memory of his _daughter_.  I don’t even think he’s going to be going home.”

Ozy is still holding her hand, his grip so tight that she can feel her bones grinding together.  “He has found his home now, supplicant.”

That word again.  She shudders.

“You sacrificed, too, Darcy,” he says, tracing the line of her mark with a finger.  “You gave up your own past readily enough.”

“That was…different.”

“Your pain is greater than his, you mean?” Ozy asks.  He lets go of her hand abruptly, crosses to the tree.  “Do you know that scholars argue whether Yggdrasil was an ash or a yew tree?  I like to think of it as a yew.  One must dare poison to gain something great.”

“What?”

“The World Tree?  Norse mythology?  The gods who walk amongst us?”

“I know what the damn World Tree is.  I read the picture books like everyone else.  But they’re not gods.  They’re aliens.”

“With their powers, how is that different to being a god?”

Suddenly Ozy’s gaze is too intent on her, and she stumbles back from him.  “Can I just get out of here, please?”

Ozy arches an eyebrow at her use of _please_ , but he presses a fist to his chest and dips into a bow.  It is oddly reminiscent of Loki, and she finds herself reaching behind herself again without thinking.  She catches the movement halfway.  Does she actually _want_ him to be here?

Ozy claps his hands together, and the world flickers, flows away to grey.  There is a momentary glimpse of figures in the grey, people fluttering like rice paper in a breeze, and then the labyrinth is gone.

 

*

 

The stars are beginning to fade from the sky, the sunrise streaking the sky with violent crimson and purple.  The light washes over the park, over Darcy, Ozy and Max.

The three of them are standing outside a small ramshackle structure.  Like the labyrinth, its walls are constructed from detritus, but unlike the labyrinth, here the bicycles, books and furniture have only been loosely stacked.  There are only four walls enclosing a space smaller than Darcy’s living room, and the lopsided space serving as an entrance barely reaches Darcy’s waist.

“Where did the labyrinth go?” she asks.  Glancing at the other two men, then down at herself, she realises something else.  “And those creepy robes?”

Ozy just smiles.

Darcy turns away from him.  The rest of the park has changed, too.  The makeshift gates, the chemical lights, the tables holding refreshments are all gone.  Even the cars stacked as barriers along the road are gone, only a few vehicles scattered about, the horse carriages parked back near the entrance.

Two men approach the labyrinth.  At a nod from Ozy, they each grasp a corner and pull.  It only takes a slight movement, and the whole structure crashes down with a sound like a sigh.  The men set to work gathering the detritus and carrying it out of the park, where more people load it onto the back of a truck.  Soon, everything is gone, only the pressed-down grass evidence that anything had been there at all.

Not just that.  There is a sapling growing in the centre of the space the walls had enclosed, pushing up through the thick grass.  The tree is a thin, fragile thing, its stem so pale it is almost translucent, only a few leaves sprouting from it, still half curled and tender.

Max hadn’t moved the whole time the men had been disassembling the labyrinth.  He is standing stock still, his profile to Darcy.  She moves around so she can see his face, and immediately regrets it.  His skin is waxen and pallid, his cheeks gaunt.  His eyes do not blink, and they are empty.

That feeling of wrongness curls tight in Darcy again, looking upon Max’s face.  “Is he…is he okay?” she asks.

Ozy rolls up Max’s sleeves, his fingers delicate on the fabric.  Both of Max’s wrists have been marked with the black patterns.  

“Some sacrifices are hard,” Ozy says.  He traces a finger over the black, and Max shudders lightly.  Ozy waves over one of the men from the truck, and guides Max to him.  “Take him back to the building.  Find someone to watch over him.”

The man nods and leads Max away.  Darcy watches them go, shivering lightly in the chill morning air.  The colour is fading from the sky now, the light of the rising sun dulling to something grey and thin.  On the other side of the sky, thick clouds are rolling in.  She suspects that there will be snow soon.  An early winter.  It seems fitting.

She slides a hand into her pocket.  The battered iPod Beth had given her is there, along with her Stark phone.  Both are drained of batteries.

The truck’s engine starts with a growl.  Darcy watches as the men jump onto the back, perching themselves amongst the items that had been used to build the labyrinth.  She has a glimpse of Max sitting in the cab, still staring, before the truck rolls off into the city, the sound of its engine quickly vanishing into the silence.

Ozy moves over to the sapling, squats down and touches one of the curled leaves with a finger.  “Yew, do you think?  Or ash?”

Darcy turns from where she had been looking down the now-empty street.  “I don’t know anything about trees.”

Ozy stands again, brushing his hands over his trousers.  The movement pulls at the collar of his shirt, and Darcy sees that not only are there black marks on both of his wrists, but also on the skin beneath his collarbone.  His eyes fix on hers, the corner of his mouth lifting, and in a single movement, he pulls off his shirt.

His entire torso and both arms are all covered with the black marks.  Dozens of smaller marks mesh together to form a design that is at both angular and wave-like, undulating across his ribs and down his abdomen.  All of the black marks are raised, and unlike Darcy’s, Ozy’s marks are angry-looking, as though they are indeed brands. 

He shrugs into his shirt again, turns and begins to walk away.  He is a dozen steps away from her when he pauses, speaks over his shoulder.

“The labyrinth will open again next new moon,” he says.  “One month from today.  She can take all the pain away, all the badness, _everything_.  Think about it.”

“She?” Darcy asks.  “Who is she?”

He does not answer.

 


	14. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we have Loki back! And some smut for good measure. And angst. I kind of had ridiculous fun writing this chapter. Fans of Labyrinth, you will notice a certain dream sequence making an appearance here. Couldn't help myself
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who's commenting, bookmarking, subscribing and leaving kudos. You are all awesome.

Darcy runs through the city.

It is something that she has always wanted to do - to be one of the people who _ran_.  Not the idiots who power walked, the people who did a shuffling jog.  She always wanted to run, to push her body to its limit, to fly over the ground.

She had walked at first as she moved away from the park, that twist of unease still moving through her.  The further she moved away from the place where the labyrinth had been - assuming it had actually been there at all - the more that heavy unease lightened.  Three blocks away, and she was fairly skipping down the street.

It didn’t matter if the labyrinth had been there or not, she decided.  It didn’t matter if it was some kind of weird drug trip or what kind of person Ozy was or if any of it was real or not.

Because right here, right now, was the first time she’d been able to think of her father without her whole body turning to concrete.  It was the first time she’d been able to think of her mothers, her brothers, without guilt rushing up to swallow her.

It is the first time that she has ever felt free.

And so her walk had become a skip, her skip a jog.  And then she’d been _running_.  Her body working the primal way it had always been meant to work.  Muscles contracting and relaxing, joints swinging and sliding, heart pumping and air rushing in and out of her lungs.  And she feels like she could just run forever, just keep going faster and faster until she is going to fast that she has to take off and fly into the sky, shuck her skin and flesh and be free from everything, forever.

When she finally slows, it is because she wants to, not because she has to.  She finds herself in a street she has never been in before.  There’s a line of bars and clubs, all of them with the doors open, windows smashed.  Someone has tagged the pavement with a series of red and blue stars, over and over.  Every third one has been crossed with black paint, and the same black paint has been carefully applied to the jagged edges of the broken windows.

Darcy has gone to more bars and clubs than she can remember.  Has had boyfriends, has hooked up with random guys, a few girls even.  And has never really been there in her body once.  Her entire life has been going through the motions of what Darcy Lewis should do, who Darcy Lewis should be.

She wishes suddenly that at least one of these places was still up and running.  That she could just walk in, order a drink, hook up with someone.  Find out what sex felt like when you were actually there.  She takes a step towards the closest bar.  A wave of warm air washes out, fetid and close.  It smells as though something or someone has died in there. She hastily turns back.

Her skin is hot and damp, her hair tangled with sweat, a sensation that had always been repulsive to her in the past.  Right now, as she begins walking again, a breeze brushes against her, cooling her skin, and it feels good.  It feels like being alive.

She grins, and she begins to run again.

 

*

 

Darcy half walks, half skips down the corridor leading to the guard room.  She is at least an hour late for her shift, she thinks, give or take, but she doubts that anyone will notice or care.  It’s not like Loki actually needs real looking after, anyway.

Two large boxes await her outside the guard room, as well as two meal trays.  At the last, she does a double take.  Breakfast and lunch meant that she was away - that she was _running_ \- for all of the morning, and who knows how much of the afternoon.  A week earlier, and she would have been wrecked from just running for a few minutes.  Not to mention very sore unless she was wearing at least two sports bras layered on top of one another, she adds, looking down.  Right now, she feels no soreness, no tiredness.  She feels brimming over with energy.  Light.  Free.

Grinning, she hauls the boxes and trays into the guard room.  Figuring that Loki has already waited, and that he won’t eat the food anyway, she set the trays aside and plunks the boxes down next to the couch.

There is a note taped to the topmost box.  Jane’s neat handwriting tells her that there’s formula, nappies and clothing for Ravi in one of the boxes, along with some basic medication he and his mother might need.  The other box is for Darcy.

Darcy peeks into the topmost box.  It’s crammed full of baby things, just as Jane said.  Including what looks like red onesie emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo.  She doesn’t even want to think why that piece of clothing exists, or why baby items were stockpiled here.  Sometimes, with Stark, it was just better not to know.

Darcy sets the box for Beth next to the door, then turns back to the one for her.  She realises as she’s moving that can’t sit still.  She’s tapping her fingers against the side of the box, bouncing her knee when she sits back down.  She feels as though she’s had a dozen cups of strong black coffee, with none of the edgy wiredness or heart palpitations that usually went along with that.

On top of the second box’s contents is an envelope.  When she opens it, a small electronic pass key falls out.  There’s a note from Jane informing Darcy that the key is for a gym area in the basement.  No one else has access to it, so Darcy can treat it as her own personal space.  Jane has even drawn a map so Darcy can find it in the maze of basements.

“Subtle hint, Jane?” Darcy asks.  She twirls the key around her fingers, pausing to admire the way the black tattoo on her wrist undulates with the movements of her tendons.  “Well, booyah, Jane, because I just spent the entire fricking morning running.”

She loops her key onto her ID, then turns back to the rest of the box’s contents.  There’s more food - all freeze dried stuff and military rations, by the looks of it.  Darcy casts a baleful eye on Loki’s trays, which seem to be including even more fresh food.  She wonders why anyone is even bothering to feed him.

There are clothes in the box, too.  Jeans in several sizes,  sweaters, underwear, socks, a waterproof coat.  Gloves, knitted hats, and, at the bottom, a pair of boots.  All of the latter look to be military in origin.  There’s another note from Jane tucked into one of the boots, letting Darcy know that she can change the size if she needs to.

Darcy looks down at her own mismatched boots.  The leather is scuffed on both, the soles worn down, though she only bought both pairs within the last few months.  “I was getting kind of used to you.”  She looks at Loki’s trays again.  “Guess it’s time to earn my keep.  Time to feed the monster.”

She picks up the lunch tray, and promptly almost drops it as she passes before the monitors for the first time since entering the guard room.

Loki is pacing his cell, his hands clenching and unclenching.  As though he knows that she is looking, he pauses, stares straight up at the camera.  He says something, his hands moving in sharp gestures, long fingers splayed.  She can’t tell is he’d angry or pleading.

She set down the tray in order to slide the gate remote into her pocket.  She gets caught in admiring the tattoo on her wrist again, turning her hand around and around, the black marks moving like waves over her skin.  She is about to pick up the tray again when she pauses, some instinct making her pull down her sweater sleeve to cover the mark.  She picks up her headphones and plugs them into her ears, tucking the loose end into her jeans pocket so it looks like she’s listening to music.  Only then does she pick up the tray and go through into the cell.

Loki has stilled.  He stands next to the intercom, his hands fisted by his side.  His hair is tangled and damp, as though he’s been running his hands through it over and over.  His cheeks are flushed.

Darcy deliberately affects a kind of walking dance, as though the music she’s listening to is so good that she can’t stand still.  Which, at least, is truth, at least for the latter.  Dancing feels _good_ , as though she’s never been aware of her body and how it can move before.

She dumps the tray into the slot, sending a silent prayer for whatever Asgardian magic they used to make it so no sound could be heard through that space.  She tries not to look at Loki, but she can see him in her peripheral vision.  As soon as she begins to turn away, he’s pounding on the perspex barrier so hard that she can feel the vibrations through the floor.

She turns her back on him, still dancing.  And though she is nowhere near the intercom, and though the intercom _cannot_ be activated from within the cell, its speaker crackles to life.

“- _Darcy!  What happened-?”_

Her name on his lips is almost enough to make her turn.  As it is, she feels something twist tight in her, remembers the dreams: his body on Yrsa’s, his body on Bera’s.   How beautiful he had looked, with the hardness stripped away.

She forces the memories away, opens the gate, runs through it.  

 

*

 

Darcy turns off the shower reluctantly, steps out of the steam-fogged stall.

When Jane’s note had mentioned a gym room, she had expected some tiny little room with a couple of ellipticals, maybe a treadmill.  She should have known better.

The gym room itself is larger than her apartment, and filled with what looks like the highest quality equipment.  There are free weights, treadmills, ellipticals, and more machines that she doesn’t have the faintest idea of their use.  Including several that she suspects were not actually designed with exercise in mind.

As well-appointed as the gym is, it is the bathroom that transfixed her.

Stark probably considers it small, she supposes, but it’s still at least four times the size of her bathroom in her apartment.  Everything is tiled in white, and there are stacks of white towels and robes emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo.  Two large shower stalls, and a jacuzzi large enough for two people.  When she pressed a button by accident, a panel slid back on the wall above the jacuzzi, revealing a television screen.

All this for a gym room in a basement that no one ever used.   

Jane had evidently been down here, because there was another box waiting for her.  This one contained shampoo, conditioner, body wash, hair products, even some unopened boxes of makeup.  Clearly Tony Stark had stockpiled _everything_ for the end of the world.

“Can’t have your girls looking anything but pretty when the world’s falling apart, right?”  Darcy reaches for a towel and dries off.  “And by the way, Darce,” she adds as she grabs a robe, “you might want to talk to someone about the habit of talking to empty rooms.  Or does everyone just go crazy by default in an apocalypse?”

She shrugs into a robe, wraps a towel around her hair.  The room is warm and fragrant, scented with the cinnamon and ginger body wash she’d used.  Her skin is warm, too, and her muscles relaxed, and she doesn’t want to leave this haven.  There’s a remote control slotted next to the television, and for want of anything else to do, she turns on the set.

Most of the channels are showing static, something that sends a cold sliver of ice into her heart.  All this time, she’d been so wrapped up in what was happening to New York, she’d forgotten about the rest of the world.  There were the wars, sure, but there were always wars these days.  They’d be fought, and people would die, but one side would win, and everything would return to normal.

She didn’t even want to think about what was happening elsewhere to stop so many channels transmitting.

Finally, she finds a channel with a shaky signal, though the image flips in and out and is swallowed by intermittent static.  She doesn’t recognise the channel, and the man talking looks like he’s in a basement of some kind.

He looks young, barely more than a teenager, his shirt and tie sitting awkwardly on shoulders not fully into their adult growth.  She can just see a laptop in front of him, as well as a scattered pile of papers.

She watches him for five minutes.  By the time she turns the television off, unable to listen any more, her hands are shaking, all of the warmth gone from her body.

More wars have been declared.  A terrorist attach on Washington, with rumours of biological weapons being used.  The White House in flames, the President’s whereabouts unknown.  Canada’s borders closed indefinitely, no communication from beyond them for the last week.  England declaring nation-wide martial law.  All of Australia, completely silent on all forms of communication, and no one knows why.

“The world really is fucking ending.”  Darcy’s voice echoes, hollow, in the bathroom, her own voice the only thing that answers her.

She’s shivering now, so she shucks the robe.  She brought some of the clothes from Jane’s box with her, and she pulls on fresh underwear, new jeans.  Her usual size is too larger, the jeans bagging at her hips and thighs.  She’s forced to put her dirty bra, since that was apparently one garment Tony Stark hadn’t stockpiled.  That still fits, typically.  She pulls on a clean t-shirt, then her glasses, then turns to look at herself in the mirror.

Her reflection stares back at her solemnly.  Her hair is drying in a mass of waves, emphasising the new thinness to her face.  There are circles beneath her eyes, and lines of strain at the sides of her mouth.  She looks sick.  She looks as exhausted as she feels.

Even though she mocked the cosmetics earlier, she reaches for them now, hands moving in a familiar, and comforting dance.  When she’d lived at home, makeup had been forbidden to her.  Only once she was out in the world had she learned the mysteries of powder and lipstick, learned how to construct her own mask, her own image of how Darcy Lewis should appear to the world.

When she is done, the girl in the mirror looks more like her.  Or maybe less like her.  She doesn’t know, but she knows that some of the coldness is gone, at least.

Along with the jeans and shirt, she had brought a loose sweater and a knitted hat into the bathroom.  Part of the usual Darcy Lewis uniform: loose clothes to hide her chest, hat and glasses to hide behind.  Her message to the world: _don’t look at me, I am no one._

She looks in the mirror again.  The shirt is fitted, with a v-neckline and a Stark Industries logo embroidered over her left breast.  There’s no doubting where someone’s attention would go when they looked at her.

“But there’s no one here to see me,” she says.  “And it’s warm enough in the guard room that I don’t even need a sweater.”

Her reflection smiles.  She pulls on socks, laces up the new boots.  Tosses the used robe and towel into the bin provided.

Walks down the hallway, head held high.

 

*

 

Loki’s dinner tray is waiting outside the guard room.

She wonders, for the first time, who actually delivers the trays down here, since no one ever seems to come down to these levels.

Her answer comes as she picks up the tray.  A small bot comes whizzing past, the laundry bin from the bathroom held on its back.  Darcy grins, because the tiny thing is kind of cute.  She gives it a wave as it rattles away.  To her surprise, it beeps cheerfully back.

She’s still smiling as she goes back into the guard room.  Only one more hour of her shift - the time allocated for Loki to eat his dinner, and for her to collect his tray, and then she can go home.

 _Home_.  For the first time in her life, that word brings with it a warmth, a feeling of safety.  Beth will be there with Ravi, and maybe she can get to know more of the people she’ll be spending the apocalypse with.  Maybe, in the midst of all of this, she will have an actual family.

Her iPod has charged up, and she delivers Loki’s tray to the strains of _Moonlight Sonata_.  He’s sitting on his cot now, head in his hands.  He doesn’t look up as she dumps the tray into the slot.

Her headphones still in, she occupies herself packing up the untouched food from Loki’s other meals, setting some aside for Vinh, some for Beth.  She eats some protein bars and dried fruit, drinks coffee, takes a multivitamin.

Still twenty minutes of her shift to go.

She stretches out on the couch, her headphones still in, _Moonlight Sonata_ playing for the tenth time.  Her body is heavy and warm again from the movement, and she feels as though she’s melting into the worn cushions.  

She’s thinking that she should actually load up the new iPod Jane got her with music from the Stark library, _Moonlight Sonata_ looping again, when she slides into sleep.

 

*

 

At first there’s only the darkness again.  Velvet, living darkness that creeps over her skin, dips into the hollow of her throat, slides against her lips as though it seeks entry.

And she knows that she is dreaming.  Knows it instantly, as certainly as she knows her own name.

The darkness moves against her, silent and questioning.

“So, do I get to choose this one?” she asks.  The darkness hovers an inch from her lips as she speaks.  “Lucid dreaming, then?  I always wanted to be able to do that.”  She smiles.  “I know exactly what I want to dream.”

She breathes in, inhales the darkness.  It uncoils inside of her, and everything falls away.

 

*

 

Darcy begins to open her eyes.   She has a glimpse only of fractures light, and then gentle hands press her eyelids closed again.

She smiles, and the fingers ghost against her lips, tracing their curve.  She can see that caress, bright as sparks in the darkness behind her eyes.

More hands join the first pair, undressing her, then lifting a gown around her.  Heavy skirts are draped from her hips, a bodice laced up along her spine, the fabric cupping the curve of her ribs and breasts, as intimate as a caress.  The hands move higher, dusting fragrant powder over her face, touching her lips with a salve that tastes like peaches.  Her hair is last, fingers training it into curls, fastening ribbons and pins and combs.  

Last of all comes the heavy necklace and earrings.  The crystals are cold, but warm quickly against her skin.

The hands withdraw one by one.  A touch against her cheek, and she knows that she is allowed now to open her eyes.

She knows, even before she sees, what this dream will be.  It is a familiar one, a fantasy lived over and over when the real world became too difficult to bear, too dark.

The great wall of concave crystal acts as a mirror.  The dress is a perfect replica: yards and yards of silk and tulle, puffed sleeves, tight bodice.

Darcy grins, twirls around to make the skirts flare out.  She gets a glimpse of her crystal-studded slippers, and then, just as she’s spinning faster, she promptly steps on the hem and almost trips.

“The things the dream doesn’t tell you,” she says.  She steadies herself, readjusts the bodice where it had begun to droop.  “Dresses like this are not easy to wear.”

Instantly the dress becomes lighter, as though those invisible hands are supporting it from beneath.  The bodice tightens just enough to keep it snug around her.

“Helping hands.”  Darcy giggles.  “Thanks.”

Her giggle becomes a laugh then, the sound bouncing off the crystal and cascading like silver around her.  Her head is swimming, as though she has drunk at least two glasses too much of champagne.  Or bitten into an enchanted peach.

Her first viewing of _Labyrinth_ as a girl had been during a stolen night.  Darcy had been maybe eleven or twelve, and both she and her best friend at the time had told their parents that they were staying at a church camp for the night.  Their alibis secure, they had snuck over to her friend’s then-boyfriend’s house, hid in the basement, ostensibly to watch _Labyrinth._   The boyfriend had declared the movie too babyish, and had spent the night seeing how far he could insert his hands beneath his girlfriend’s sweater.  Darcy had barely noticed, she had been so immersed in the movie.

They had fallen asleep and been discovered in the morning.  The friend had blamed Darcy, claimed she was the one who had planned it, she who had the boyfriend. 

Prickling electricity runs down Darcy’s back in the exact pattern her mother had striped into her flesh when she found out.   Even now, she considers the strapping worth it, for from that night on, she had a fantasy world she could always retreat to.  A place where she could imagine that someone would want her, would love her enough to alter time, to change the world for her.

She turns away from the crystal wall.  While she had been facing the mirrored surface, everything had been silent, but as soon as she turns, the air is filled with music and laughter.

The ballroom is filled with masked people, their gowns and masks a riot of colours and fabrics.  Most of them are dancing, and all are chattering or laughing.  Beyond them, Darcy glimpses candelabras dripping with hot wax, and above, the ceiling is draped with strings of crystals that catch the light, spin it to rainbows.

Someone hands Darcy a mask, a gorgeous thing suggestive of the features of a delicate bird, all made from twisted wire, white pearls and crystals.  She slips it on, and it sculpts itself against her face like a second skin.  It flutters against her, pulsing as if with its own heartbeat.  Her vision sharpens slightly, everything she sees thrown into sharp relief.

Because it is what she is meant to do, she threads her way through the dancing crowd, looking for him.

As soon as she sees him, all awareness of dreaming fades away.  _This_ is reality.  This is the only reality there has ever been.  This is the only reality there will ever be.

Her skirts sway around her, making her aware of the movement of her hips as she crosses the ballroom.  The scent of musk is heavy in the air, more intoxicating than any drug she has ever taken.  She is aware of every inch of her flesh, the tightness of the bodice against her breasts, the warm air caressing the tender skin at the nape of her neck, intimate as a kiss.

He does not move, just waits for her to come to him.  Tall and slender in black, his eyes glittering behind his black horned mask.  His hair is black, not blonde, a fact that strikes her as odd, though she cannot place why.  The musk grows heavier, uncurling like smoke inside her, and then she thinks nothing at all, just knows that she has to go to him.

The corner of his mouth curves up, and she feels warmth rising in her, her breath quickening.  She has almost reached him when the crowd shifts, and he is lost from sight.  When the dancers part again, he is gone.

An almost physical sense of loss aches within her as she searches the crowd.  Catching a glimpse of him dancing here, lounging there.  Every time the crowd moves, and he is gone.  Every time, she moves on, keeps searching.

There are flashes of gold in her peripheral vision, like silent fireworks.  Each time she turns to locate their source, there is only the dancing crowd, the crystalline wall beyond. 

Suddenly there are too many people, the air too warm and close.  Dizziness begins to wash over her, grey eating at the edges of her vision.  She tries to gulp in deep breaths, but her bodice is too tight, and all she can manage is a shallow heaving of air.  She sways, and her knees begin to crumple, and she knows that the crowd will not stop, but will keep dancing, crushing her bloody beneath their feet…

…And then there are firm hands are her waist, and she is drawn into the hard warmth of his chest.  The rise and fall of his ribs is a metronome for her to steady her own breath, the thudding of his heart a focus to stop the world spinning.

She leans against him, all too aware of his hands on her waist, fingers splayed over her lower back.  The music has faded away, and she cannot hear the crowd at all now.  The whole world is filled with his heartbeat, with the tide of his breath.  She presses her hands against his chest, closes her eyes.

His breath is hot against her ear as he speaks, his voice a half whisper.  “I think we can manage better than this fairytale, don’t you?”

She pulls back from him.  The dancing figures, the ballroom, everything has become vague shadows, gold glittering here and there amongst the shadows.  The fabric of his suit changes beneath her hands, velvet becoming green and black leather with scrollwork of gold along the collar.  His mask alone does not change.

His fingers dance up her spine, sending shivers through her.  He does not miss the slight shudder; his lips curve again as he moves his fingers up over her shoulders, then down to rest lightly on her collarbones.  He waits, as though considering, and then she feels her own gown shift.

Gone is the vast skirt, the lace and ribbons.  Now she wears a gown cut from velvet so deep green it is almost black.  The bodice is even tighter, thrusting her breasts up and out, the skirt softly draped around her hips.  Air against her thigh tells her that the skirt is slit, though the fullness of the skirt would hide that unless she were to spin.  Her necklace has become a heavy curve of gold that rests in the hollow of her throat.  Matching wide cuffs clasp both of her wrists.  The gold is engraved with the same scrollwork as his collar.

He touches a hand to her hair, and she feels the ribbons fade away.  The curls are drawn up and gathered to fall loosely down from matching combs.  By their weight, she suspects that they are gold, and she just knows that they bear the same scrollwork as the jewellery.

He steps back from her, his fingertips trailing down her arm.  When he stops moving, his fingers still rest lightly on hers.  He keeps his eyes on her as he bows, presses his lips to her knuckles.  His lips curve against her skin, then she feels the heat of her tongue press between her knuckles, just for a moment.  He stands again, formal.

Music swells around them.  It is like nothing she has ever heard, played on no instruments she can identify.  The shadowed figures around them begin dancing again.  They move in a formal, orchestrated dance, men leading the woman in steps both graceful and full of strength.

He has not moved, the only contact between them his fingers, still resting loosely on hers.  He watches her.  Waits.

Her body wants to move, wants to experience dancing, wants to experience everything.

She curls her hand into his.

They begin to dance.

At first, she fumbles the steps, half trips when she tries to turn.  There is a thought in the back of her mind, the knowledge that she has never been a good dancer.  A memory floats up: a woman with tight hair standing over her, telling her that she isn’t even present in her own body.

He pauses in the dance, draws her in close to his body.  Heat rolls off him in waves, and she can smell leather and smoke, a kind of deep, heady musk.  He curls a hand around her waist, and his other hand cups her chin, one long finger tracing the line of her jaw.

“Here, your body knows the steps,” he says.  “Just dance, let it flow through you.”

Behind his mask, his eyes flick to her lips.  Warmth uncoils in her at the thought of him kissing her.  She even begins to move towards him, inviting the kiss, but he steps away again, his fingers resting loosely beneath hers.  Waiting again.

Waiting for her to lead him.

She bites her lip, glancing at the shadow dancers.  He gives her a tiny nod.

She closes her eyes.  Focuses on the sensation of his fingers against hers.  There are miniscule trembles running through him with each beat of his heart, and his hand sways ever so slightly with every one of his breaths.  The flow of blood and breath, the tides of life.  _Flow_.

The music rolls over her, through her, and she is aware of every inch of her skin, every bone, every muscle.  She is liquid, she is the ocean itself.

She begins to dance, the steps flowing from her feet like music themselves, like poetry.  She circles around behind him, trailing a hand along his arm, up to his shoulders.  His eyes follow her, his lips parting slightly as she dips her fingers beneath his collar, runs them around the back of his neck.  She feels him shudder as she continues her path down his other arm, circles around in front of him.

His eyes glitter, and then he is circling around behind her, his hand trailing up her arm to her neck.  He leans close enough that she can feel his breath against her skin, and then he is moving away again, coming around to face her.

The invitation has been offered, received, and now the dance begins in earnest.

It is a slow thing: almost, but not quite, a waltz.  Their bodies do not touch, but his hand lingers on her waist, fingers dip low on her hip.  Once, his eyes intent on her, he brushes his thumb against the underside of her breast, drawing a gasp from her lips.

The music ends, and he steps away, his hand in hers, dips into that bow again.  She slides her fingers against the inside of her wrist, feels the drumming of his pulse.

She feels _amazing_.  She feels free.

And if dancing had felt that good, then…

She smiles, and tugs on his hand.  Behind his mask, his eyes widen, but he allows her to lead him. 

The shadows move around them, and they are in a bedchamber.  All obsidian and gold, with a massive bed carved from dark wood.  At another time, she knows she would be fascinated by the carvings of animals and woodland scenery on the posts of the bed, but right now, her fascination lies elsewhere.

He hesitates when he sees the bed, but she’s not letting him call the shots.  She pulls on his arm, half leads and half pushes him onto his back on the bed.  His breath hitches in his throat as she pushes him down, straddles his hips.  

She presses her weight down for a heartbeat.  He is hard already, and when she rises back up, his hips arch, and he mades a small, needy sound, his hands grasping at her hips.  She grabs his wrists and moves his arms above his head, presses his hands down onto the bed.  He utters a small, involuntary moan, deep in his throat, and she can’t help rocking against him again.

“You’re going to keep your hands here,” she says.  “Until I ask you not to.”

He swallows heavily and nods, almost imperceptibly  His eyes on hers, he tilts his chin back, baring the long line of his throat.  She rolls her hips on him again, is rewarded with another one of those hitching moans.  His muscles grow taut, and his hands clench into fists, but he keeps them on the bed.

It’s like the dance again, and she is leading.  She traces the edge of his mask, lets her fingers skim over the line of the artery in his throat, pressing hard for a moment against the place where his pulse beats.  His hips arch up again at that, and he bites hard on his lip.

She lets her hands trail down the leather of his tunic.  There are so many straps and buckles that it seems too much like a puzzle, too difficult.  She settles for moving her hands lower, pushing up the hem of the tunic so she can hook her hands into the waistband of his trousers.  There’s no finesse now, just pure need, her body following the movements of a dance she has walked through many times, but never truly _felt._

Sliding her fingers over the skin she’s bared, she glances up at his face.  Something in the tilt of his head, the shadows and angles of cheek and jaw tug at her memory, something like a warning tolling deep within.  Then he cants his hips towards her, and she cares about nothing but unlacing his trousers, tugging them down just enough to free him.

She runs her fingers up his shaft, wraps her palm around him, squeezes lightly.  He moans again, his hips lifting from the bed, thrusting against her hand.

She gathers her skirts, realising somewhat belatedly that she is _not_ wearing any underwear beneath.  Straddles him again, holding herself close enough that he would be able to feel the heat of her, but nothing more.

“We should-“ he begins.

She cuts him off by the simple act of grasping him, tilting her hips to find the right angle, and sinking down.  He is large, forcing her to take him in slowly, circling her hips as she slowly moves down.  Finally, he is in her to the hilt, and she closes her eyes, just focusing on the feeling of him inside her.

There is something that feels completely and utterly right, as though he was made just for this.  As though she was made just for him.

When she opens her eyes, she sees that he’s clenching his hands so hard that his nails have drawn blood from his palms.  His entire body is taut, shaking with the effort to keep himself still.

She smiles, and she begins to move.

His eyes are shadowed behind his mask, but she can see them glittering, watching her as she moves.  Her body fairly aches with the need to have his hands on her, but she cannot stop herself.  Being in control right now was too intoxicating.  There would be time for more, later.

Despite himself, his hips are thrusting up into her, his rhythm matching hers.  Every time he sinks deep, he utters a small, soft sound of need.  His voice, even in this fragment of sound, is like velvet.  That sense of familiarity tugs at her again, but she pushes it away, moves faster.

He’s not going to last long, she can tell.  She doesn’t care, because neither will she.  There’s no thought in any of this, just her body, and him inside her, and the rightness of it all.

And then her climax is rising within her, crashing over her like a wave.  It is like nothing she has ever felt, and she swears that even her vision goes black for a moment.  He comes a moment later, his hips jerking up hard against her, his seed spilling inside her.

He goes utterly limp, completely relaxed.  She wants to lie down on his chest, but something keeps her upright.  She braces her hands against the bed, her body shaking with the aftershocks of her climax.

“You can move your hands now,” she says.

He does.  He rolls his shoulders once, and then, tentatively, he reaches out.  His fingers rest on hers, and she feels something clench in her chest.  And she can’t stop herself from curling her fingers into his.

He moves his fingers up her arm, his touch so light that he is barely in contact with her skin.  She closes her eyes, sees his touch, a green light that delineates the limits of her body.  He traces the curve of her shoulder, rests in the hollow of her throat, and then moves down over her other shoulder, down her arm.  When he reaches the gold cuff that encircles her wrist, something like an electric shock spears through her.  

She opens her eyes to see his fingers resting against the edge of a black tattoo that had been concealed by the cuff, the bracelet having shifted during her exertions.

He traces the lacelike edge of the tattoo, and a series of shocks, each more intense than the previous.  It feels as though he’s touching a live wire to her skin.  She tries to snatch her arm away, but he is faster than she is, grabbing her wrist and wrenching the cuff off.  He closes his fingers around her wrist, and a deep burning twists in her bones.

“What is this?” he asks.  “ _What is this?_ ”

This time he lets her pull away when she tries.  The burning ceases, leaving her with just a faint throb deep in her wrist.

“What the _fuck_?”  She rubs her aching wrist.  “That’s worse than being tased.”

He stares at her.  Raises his hand, fingers shaking.  He touches the edge of her mask, and it shimmers away to crystalline dust.  “ _Darcy?_

Recognition clicks, then, and does not fade.  _Loki_.

A second realisation comes heels on the first.  She just fucked Loki.

Loki is, in fact, still inside her.

For one, insane moment, she has the urge to move her hips.  Better sense prevails, and she pulls away, ungracefully tumbling from the bed in her haste.

He manages, of course, to look regal, even as he is tucking himself away and straightening his tunic.  She’s the one lying in a pile of velvet on the floor, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“That mark,” he says.  “From whence did it come?”

“From whence?”  She half spits the question.  “Who the fuck says things like that?”  She pulls herself up off the floor, wincing when her wrist takes her weight.  When she touches the tattoo’s raised lines, they feel hot.  “And it’s none of your damn business.”

“ _Where.  Did.  You.  Get.  It?_ ”  He grinds out each word through gritted teeth.  As he speaks, he stands, moves forward so he is standing directly above her.

She scuttles back across the floor.  She can’t help it. She can’t remember why, she just know that getting away is imperative.  She has to run, she has to hide.  He keeps advancing, and she keeps backing away.  Finally, she comes up against a solid barrier, and can back away no more.

She presses her hands against the barrier.  It is like velvet, warm and yielding.  As soon as she touches it, the pain in her wrist is gone, soothing coolness flowing through the lines of the tattoo.

Loki reaches up and flicks his mask away, impatiently scattering it to black dust.  “You should move away from that,” he says in a low whisper.  “Slowly.”

Darcy glances over her shoulder.  She sees only darkness.  “Scared of the dark, Loki?”

“ _Please_.”

That makes her look up sharply.  _Please_ is not a word she ever expected to hear on Loki’s lips.  She begins to move forward, but there’s something wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place.  When she looks down, she sees something like a living tendril of darkness has coiled around her wrist, covering the tattoo entirely.

Loki holds up a hand.  Light gathers around his fingers, and he presses it down against the dark tendril.  Something snarls behind her, and the tendril tightens, her bones grinding audibly together.

Loki draws back, his lips curling back from his teeth.

Panic spears through her as the dark tendril begins to spiral up her arm, following the path that Loki’s fingers had taken.  Everywhere it touches, she grows cold.  More tendrils spring forth, curling around her waist, her throat, her ankles.

The last thing she sees before the darkness swallows her is Loki’s face, his lips shaping her name.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Life conspired against me this week. A lot.

Everything is black, and Darcy is falling.

At least, she _thinks_ that she’s falling.  Maybe she’s flying.  Everything is so dark, this endless, absolute black with no point of reference at all.  She thinks that she feels something like a breeze against her skin, but maybe not.  Maybe she’s not moving at all.

As she falls - or flies, or stays still - memories rise within her, as though her mind is seeking to fill the darkness with _something_.

She remembers reading something once, someone saying that space smelled like burning.  She can’t remember if it was supposed to be a true thing, or if it was just something out of a science fiction story.  She can feel the weight of the book in her hands, the slight roughness of the paper beneath her fingers.

The words grow darker, blackness rising in spikes and jagged peaks like broken obsidian, growing and growing until the darkness smothers everything.

For a beat, she is falling or flying again, her heart hammering.

Then she is in high school, in biology class.  This is certainly a memory of something real.  She is sitting at a high table, the laminated surface green, the exact shade of the apple she had eaten with her lunch.  It was summer, and the air coming in through the open windows is thick with humidity.  There is a fan spinning on the teacher’s desk, but it does little more than stir the damp air.  The room smells like sweat and formaldehyde.

The teacher circled the room, setting down a metal tray on each table.  Upon each tray, dissection tools.

And a mouse, its belly fat with unborn young.

The plastic stool Darcy is sitting on is slightly crooked, and every few breaths, she rocks to one side or another, and clutches at the counter, half worried that she’ll fall.  She can’t take her eyes off the mouse.  Wondering if it is still breathing.

Sitting by her side is Lisa Frances, her best friend at the time.  Lisa was a vegetarian that week, and she puts up her hand.  Her voice is far away as she tells the teacher that its against her principles to dissect an animal.

Lisa presses the scalpel into Darcy’s hand.  Darcy cuts, the mouse’s skin giving beneath the blade before it splits.  The smell of decomposing flesh rises above the chemicals, and baby mice spill from the cut.  

Someone turns on a light behind the fan, the light flickering over the table, the mice.  The shadows are darker than they should be, and they rise in jagged peaks, tendrils of shadow curling around Darcy, swallowing the memory.

More memories follow, each one swallowed in turn by the shadows.  The first boy she had slept with - Lisa’s cousin Ben, in fact.  His hands had flailed limply at her body, and there had been pain as he had pressed inside her.  Later, there are others, and she learns that there can be more than pain, but she is always too aware of her own body, and she is glad when the shadows rise up and take the memories away.

The darkness presses against her, warm and damp.  It gives her the sickening feeling that she’s _inside_ a living thing.  She tries not to think what follows, but she can’t stop the image of being swallowed, of falling down into some enormous gullet, of being _digested_.

Then the darkness around her is rising into spikes and shards, pressing against her skin the way her scalpel had pressed against that mouse on that long-ago afternoon.  And then they are not spikes at all, but claws and teeth rending her flesh, tearing muscle and sinew from bone.

She screams.

Something flares in the darkness, a light that reminds her of the dance of moonlight on the tropical sea.  Those claws and teeth are pressing deeper, pain twisting in every nerve.  Some dim, animal instinct makes her reach for the light, grasp it with both hands.  She can feel her skin slippery with blood, and it takes her two tries to grasp the light.  It burns like fire against her, but there is something comforting, almost _cooling_ , about that burn.

She holds on with everything she has, and the light pulls her out of the darkness.

 

*

 

Darcy blinks black blood from her eyes.

The pain is still moving in crippling waves over her skin, and she can’t help but make a small, strangled sound deep in her throat.  She wants to scream, she wants to rend her throat bloody, because it hurts as nothing else has ever hurt before in her life.

There is a touch on her cheek, and she pulls away involuntarily, knowing that it will only hurt.  How could it not, when she feels as though her skin has been flayed, her muscles chewed from her bones?

The light is still there, and as her vision finally begins to clear, it resolves into something more.  Green eyes, looking down at her with concern.

“Darcy?  Darcy!”

It takes her a long moment to recognise the sound of her name.  She cannot recognise him, her shattered mind not even capable of parsing his features into anything human.  She can see fragments only: green eyes, black hair, pale skin.

That touch comes again, his fingers pressing gently at her ribs, her arms and legs.  Each time he touches her, the pain receded, like a wave flowing out with the tide.  By the time he trails his fingers along the line of her jaw, she feels whole again.  Shaking and shattered and wrung out dry, but whole.

When he withdraws his hand, she expects to see his fingers wet with blood.  They are clean, albeit shaking almost as badly as she is.

Something glitters in his eyes - is it relief that she sees there?  She almost recognises him, but then he presses his hand against her forehead.  Blessed coolness washes through her, and then she is sinking down into cool, emerald light.

She closes her eyes, and she sleeps.

 

*

 

Darcy dreams of floating on a vast, emerald sea.

Above her are the stars: a vast expanse of jewel-bright colours against the deep velvet dark of space.  She is weightless, not a single ounce of tension in her body as she floats.

She smiles, and turns over, and the sea becomes silk beneath her.  She is lying on a bed, the mattress supporting her as effortlessly as the water had.  

Movement behind her, and she feels the coolness of skin against hers, an unmistakably masculine arm curving around her ribs and pulling her close.

It feels so _right_ to curve her body against his, to be held by him in a nest of skin-warmed silk.

She closes her eyes, and is beginning to drift back into the floating dream when a sharp jangling sound shatters the silence.  

For a heartbeat, the scene remains solid, then it all falls apart, everything fading into smoke and air.

She opens her eyes to darkness.  There is no silk beneath her, just worn cushions.  And there is definitely no one holding her, no sense of _rightness_ to any of this at all.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the room - not total darkness at all, but rather the thin gloom that comes when a room is only illuminated by tiny LED lights on electronic equipment.

She is in the guard room, has been sleeping on the couch.  Her new boots are lined up neatly on the floor, laces tucked neatly away in a manner that is nothing like anything she would do. She’s more prone to kicking her shoes into the nearest corner, then swearing the next day while trying to find where they landed.

The jangling noise comes again, and this time she realises that its her phone, its light coming from within the pocket of her jacket, which is hanging on the back of the chair.

When she sits up, her head swims, and she swallows hard against nausea.  She doesn’t bother with the lights, just claws the phone out of her jacket pocket, answers it.

“Hello?”  Her voice is rusty and dry, sounding as though she’d been at a club, screaming over loud music the previous night.  She blinks at that thought; she has no idea if it is even day or night right now.  She clears her throat.  “Hello?”

“You haven’t filed any of your reports.”

Darcy blinks again.  “What?”

A sound like the grinding of teeth comes over the line.  “You haven’t filed any of your reports.”

She rolls her eyes.  “As helpful as repeating the same thing is, who is this?”

“Ms Lewis, you know full well who this is.  Your supervisor?  The one you’re supposed to be reporting to at the end of every shift.  As per the contract you signed.”

Daniel Blackwood.  The name comes to her slowly, as if swimming up through a murky pool.  She still feels half asleep, as though this is the dream and that ocean, that bed, was real life.  She scrubs her hand across her eyes; her lashes are crusted, as if with salt.  “Da-“  She bites off the name halfway.  “David?  That was your name, right?” she asks deliberately.

“ _Daniel_.  Daniel Blackwood.”

“Right.  Sure.”  Her stomach contracts painfully, and she wonders how long she was sleeping.  She scrabbles in the boxes beneath the desk until she finds a protein bar.  Tears it open, stuffs it into her mouth and chews.  Loudly.

“Ms Lewis, I suggest that if you want to keep your job, you begin filing your reports,” Daniel says.

“Got a long line of interns just waiting to take it, right?” she asks.  She doesn’t know why she’s being so antagonistic to him, doesn’t care right now, because it feels good.  

That grinding noise comes again, louder now.  Much too loud to be his teeth, she thinks.  “Just file the damn reports.”

He clicks off.  Darcy puts the phone down on the desk, finishes her protein bar by its light.  According to the display on the phone, it’s a little after 8pm.  

She opens another protein bar and eats it more slowly, trying to piece together the day.  She remembers the labyrinth, she remembers running through the city.  A little zing of electricity moves through her muscles at that memory, and she wonders at the fact that she’s not even sore from the running.  In fact, she feels like she could damn well run all the way home right now, and not even get winded.  

After that, there was the gym room and the attached bathroom.  She’d gotten back to the guard room after Loki’s dinner tray had been delivered.

Which means that she had only been asleep for maybe an hour.  Somehow, that thought is both reassuring and disturbing.  

Her Stark laptop is sitting on the desk, the battered iPod Beth had given her plugged in to charge.  She frowns at that, because she doesn’t remember bringing either of them into the Tower.

She realises that she’s rubbing the raised tattoo on her wrist as she stares at the laptop.  It’s soothing, running her fingers over that pattern, and soon she doesn’t care at all whether she can remember bringing it here.  It was here now, and that’s what mattered, right?

The light of the screen is bright when she opens the laptop, and she blinks away tears as her eyes adjust.  She opens the email program, skims through a list of what look like company-wide messages.  Reminding people to recycle, to be wary out on the streets, to ensure that their hours are logged at the end of the week.

Darcy smiles grimly.  If someone only had these emails to look at, they’d think that the world wasn’t ending at all.

The contract she signed is in the desk drawer.  She reads it over as best as she can by the light of the laptop screen.  Like Daniel said, there’s a clause which requires her to report her observations of the prisoner at the end of each day.

Her smile becomes genuine as she reads further.  Because there’s nothing about _who_ she has to report to.

She remembers Pepper cutting in to her conversation with Daniel.  Opens a fresh email, scans the company contacts until she finds one for Pepper.  She writes a brief, polite email explaining that she was unaware of the need to send reports in daily, requests if she could be allowed to report directly to Pepper.

The reply comes almost immediately.  Agreeing to her request, and informing her that, with the way things are, Darcy is only required to report in if something happens that she deems a potential threat.  Apart from that, she is to use her own discretion.

Darcy switches on the monitor at the guard station desk.  Loki is lying on his cot, seemingly asleep.  _Is_ he a threat?  He’s locked away, unable to perform magic.  Unable to do anything.  

Something softens in her as she watches the slight rise and fall of his chest with his breath.  He has _nothing_ in that cell.  No wonder he was catatonic.  The guy was probably bored out of his mind.

Before she can think better of it, she’s moving through the corridors of the basement until she finds the library she stumbled over while searching for a storage room.  She grabs an armful of books at random, not even knowing what Loki would find interesting.  Shakespeare, a few poetry collections, even a biography of Tony Stark’s father.  She guesses that anything is better than staring at a blank wall.

She’s back in the guard room, about to open the gate, when memory rises around her.  It’s like a mist at first, the echo of music and warmth, and then the memory is more real than the guard room.  

She is dancing with Loki, and this time she knows it is his green eyes hidden behind the horned mask, his body moving against hers as they move through the steps.  He smiles, and the memory twists, the ballroom fading away.  They are on the bed, his arms held above his head.  Him, hard inside of her, a perfect fit.

The sound of the books falling to the floor shatters the memory.  Darcy stares at the still-closed gate.  She is trembling, and there is a deep pulsing warmth gathered between her legs.  She knows that it would only take a single light touch in the right place, and she would come.

Without looking at the monitor, she knows that Loki is awake now.  That if the wall and gate were not there, his eyes would be burning into hers.

That he dreamed the same dream.

She leaves the books where they fell.  Grabs her jacket and her phone.  Fills a bag with items for Beth and Ravi, then runs back through the corridors.

The cold night outside is a balm washing over her, and she leans against the side of the building for a long time, dragging in deep breaths.  There is a faint scent of rot in the air - garbage left behind mouldering in the streets, she supposes.  In the distance, there is a faint sound like drumming.  She wishes that the city was filled with sound the way it used to be.  Everything loud enough to drown out every memory, every dream.

 


	16. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos and subscriptions!! They are very much appreciated.
> 
> Apologies for updates slowing down - I've been unwell lately, and it's been difficult to find the energy to sit down and actually write. I'm hoping to keep a schedule of at least weekly updates now, all going well.

Darcy walks along the empty, shadowed streets of the city, hands deep in her pockets, knitted cap pulled down low over her eyes.  There’s an edge to the air, the kind of blue chill that she always associated with the days before the first snow fall of the season back home.

She’s never noticed that edge here in New York.  The city has always been too warm, the heat of so many people, so many lives, burning the edges of winter, the changes in season too gradual to be noticed.

She’s aware of the weight of Stark Tower behind her as she walks, feels it dragging against her like a force of gravity.  It takes all of her will not to turn and look back - not to turn and _walk_ back.  Because it’s the not the Tower she feels at all.  It’s _Loki_ , his presence pulling at her.  As though somehow he can still see her, even with dozens of buildings and streets between them.

She shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

She hurries her steps, and by the time she reaches the bridge, she’s running again.

_What are you running from?_

The voice in her head is new, not the familiar tones of her mother or anyone she remembers.  The tattoo on her wrist tingles, and then burns, and vertigo washes over her.  For a brief, panicked moment, she thinks that the bridge itself is twisting, and she runs even faster, a flat-out sprint that leaves her gasping for breath on the other side.

Everything is still.  Everything is silent.  The only twisting is within her.

_Why keep running?  Why not just stop?  Surrender?_

The tattoo is burning again, and she rubs her fingers hard against it, suddenly wishing she could slough it away from her bones.

“I don’t know how to do anything other than run,” she says to the empty street.  “It’s all I fucking know how to do.”

The voice in her head laughs, amused, but says nothing else.  A moment later, the burning of the tattoo ceases.

She walks more slowly back to her building.  When she catches sight of it, she breathes a sigh of relief.  Every window in it is lit from within, and a half dozen buildings surrounding it blaze also, the whole burning like a flame against the cold of the night.

Someone has salvaged neon signage from somewhere, arranged a collection of mismatched letters on the roof of her building, blue and red and orange spelling out the name _Utopia_.  The coloured light spills onto the road, washing her in rainbows as she crosses the pavement to the building entrance.

The warmth of the foyer closes around her like an embrace.  She rubs her hands together, fingertips tingling as blood begins to flow through her skin again.

Someone has been working in the foyer.  The dusty potted palms and threadbare couch that no one ever used are gone.  Instead, plush velvet seating lines the edges of the room, long banks of chairs that look to have been ripped from a theatre of some kind.  The peeling paper has been removed from the walls, the plaster decorated with random splashes of brightly coloured paint.  Speakers in the corners play soft music: something vaguely atonal, underscored by a deep, throbbing electronic bass.

It feels real here, the colours bright, the music highlighting just how much she has been surrounded by silence of late.  Darcy smiles, standing there, just looking around the foyer.  From the floors above come trickles of sound: someone singing what sounds like gospel, the strumming of an ill-tuned guitar, the thin cry of a child who cannot sleep.  Everything feels _alive_ in the way little has since the attack on New York, since Darcy’s world began to crumble.

“Maybe I was never running away,” Darcy says.  “Maybe I just never knew what I was running to.”

A clattering of heels comes from the stairwell, and a group of teenage girls burst into the foyer.  They’re dressed in black, wobbling on too-high heels.  All three wear the same bright pink lipstick, and all have doused themselves in a musky perfume.  They are all wearing layered black bracelets on their wrists, lengths of ribbon, beads and string woven together in a lace-like pattern.  They pause when they see Darcy, their mascaraed eyes going to her wrist.

She looks down, sees that her coat cuff has ridden up to reveal the edge of the black tattoo.  

One of the girls takes a step towards Darcy, but her friends pull her back.  They whisper together for a moment, then turn and exit the foyer, a blast of cold air sweeping in as the doors close.

The tattoo on Darcy’s wrist is warm again, a sensation like someone wrapping their fingers around her arm.

She climbs the stairs to her apartment.  There, she finds Beth and Ravi asleep on the bed, a tangle of blankets and sweaters rucked around them to form a cosy nest.  On the floor nearby two lanky youths are tangled together, pale arms and legs so entwined that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins.  Both have curlicued lines painted onto their wrists.

Darcy sets the bag full of items for Beth and Ravi close to the bed.  One of the youths murmurs in his sleep, turns over, expertly negotiating the limbs wrapped around him.  Something curls tight in Darcy, seeing the way the boys lie so easily in each other’s arms. Anytime she’s shared a bed with anyone, it’s always been an awkward thing of numb limbs and accidental elbows in the ribs.  She’s never been comfortable with anyone.

The boy mutters again, his fingers closing convulsively around the wrist of his companion, smearing the lines inked there.

Suddenly Darcy feels like an intruder, standing here staring at the pair as they sleep.  It feels like they, and Beth, and the ones who belong here, not her.

Well, she supposes, they probably do, more than her.  They live here.  She runs between here and Stark Tower.  She lives nowhere.

“Always running, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The world stills at the sound of that voice.  When she turns, she sees him standing there.  Her father.  Alive.

He looks exactly the same as he had on that last day.  Flakes of white skin peeling from his sunburned cheeks, dirt engrained deep within his nails.  His eyelids droop at the corners, his eyes the faded blue of the summer sky around pupils too wide, too dark.

Darcy stares at him.  She closes her hand around the tattoo, thumb tracing the raised pattern.  “You’re dead,” she says.  “You died in front of me.  We buried you.”

His lips draw back from cracked, yellow teeth.  “Dead twice over, darling.  Gave me to the darkness, you did.  All for that.”  He nods at the tattoo.

“It was just a memory.  You’re _dead_.”

“Then maybe you should have buried me deeper, sweetheart.”

He takes a step towards her, and the smell of him - tobacco and whiskey, dirt and unwashed skin - washes over her.  Nausea twists hard in her belly, and she falls to her knees, rubbing hard at the tattoo.  The distance, the freedom she had felt, it’s all gone now, his presence filling the world, his shadow falling over her, smothering her, trapping her.

His calloused fingers cup her cheek.  “Darlin’ girl, don’t you know that you can’t ever run away from who you are?  Not from me, sweetheart.  Not from any of us.”

The click of the shotgun being loaded echoes in the room.  Darcy doesn’t need to look to know that her mother is standing behind her, her brothers too.  

“You’re dead,” she says.  “You’re all dead.  This isn’t real.”

Her father’s hand twists hard against her jaw, forces her chin up.  When he smiles this time, his lips draw back from his teeth, exposing gums that are raw and bloodless.

“Death means nothing now.”  He reaches down with his free hand, wraps his fingers around her tattooed wrist.  The lines of ink burn against her skin.  “Thanks to you, _daughter_.  _Supplicant._ ”

Tendrils of darkness undulate around the figure of her father, and then his flesh begins to darken, shimmering like oil.  Darcy watches, horrified, as his form _melts_ , twists, becomes that of someone else entirely.

She - at least Darcy _thinks_ it’s a woman - stands over six foot in height.  Her limbs are long and bone-thin, her skin ash grey.  Her hair twists around her face, living darkness moving in a serpentine, almost hypnotic dance.  The strands make a sound like bone scraping against bone as they move.  Her fingers end in long, thin nails that are almost more like black claws, each one pressing into Darcy’s skin, drawing beads of blood.

“Who…who are you?” Darcy asks.

The woman smiles that too-wide smile again.  Her teeth are black, too, and sharp as knives.  Her eyes are pools of pure black, gleaming like obsidian as she leans close.  Darcy sees her own face reflected there, too pale.

The woman steps closer, her long black skirts parting as she moves.  One thin leg slides clear of the fabric; the skin there is mottled rot-green.  The hand around Darcy’s wrist tightens, claws digging deeper.  The scent of blood - _Darcy’s_ blood - rises, followed quickly by a stench like burning meat.

Pain, sharp and electric, claws into Darcy’s arm, and she feels lines of heat curling across her skin.

“Oh, there is so much more here to be sacrificed,” the woman says.  Her tongue slides out between her lips, curls against the air as though she is tasting it.  “And you are so _willing_.  You’re running from _so much_.”

Darcy wants to close her eyes, wants to tun away, but all she can see is her own face reflected in the woman’s eyes, all she can feel is everything bubbling up inside of her.  All of the poison that she’s choked down over the years: every snide comment, every sideways glance, every night she spent crying quietly into her pillow.

She looks into the woman’s eyes, and she wants suddenly to offer it all up, to be rid of all of it once and for all.

But then in the darkness she sees a flash of emerald light.

And she remembers a dream of darkness, of shards of night pressing against her skin.  Of emerald light, of emerald _eyes_.  Of _Loki_ , standing over her as she lay on the couch in the guard room.  She hadn’t recognised him then, and when she’d woken properly, she hadn’t even remembered the dream.

And she remembers the other dreams - Loki standing behind her on the precipice of Stark Tower, Loki standing behind her while she dreamed of the house that had been her home.  She remembers Yrsa, she remembers Bera, she remembers Loki falling through darkness, Loki _burning_.

And she pulls away from the dark woman, her claws digging deep furrows into Darcy’s skin, slicing across the tattoo with a sensation like acid burning her skin.  Darcy pushes the pain away, focuses on that emerald light, _reaches_ for it.

“I have nothing else to sacrifice,” she says.  “I’m done with running.”

The dark woman hisses, but Darcy is already gone, the world spinning around her, the city folding and unfolding until she is standing inside Loki’s cell.

His breath comes hard, and his forehead is damp with sweat.  He stares at her, his eyes wide.  When she looks down, she sees that her hand is wrapped around his wrist.  Blood is flowing freely from the wounds the dark woman made, and where it passes over the edges of the wounds, it hisses, turns black.  Where the black blood touches Loki’s skin, his flesh changes, becomes _blue_.

Darcy yanks her hand away, staring at the blue fades slowly from Loki’s skin.  Realises then, with a start, that she’s actually standing _inside_ Loki’s cell.

He visibly arranges himself, his expression smoothing over, hands folding at his waist as he retreats as much as the small space allows.

“The cell is not designed to hold Midgardians,” he says, his voice toneless.  “You will find that you are able to walk back out.”

Darcy can’t stop herself backing out, even as she sees the almost-invisible crease of pain form between Loki’s eyebrows.  The barrier which she has thought of as perspex - but which clearly is nothing but - flows like warm water around her, and then she is in the corridor, the barrier between herself and Loki.

“Who…who is she?”  Darcy’s voice trembles, her words punctuated by the dripping of blood onto the floor.

“I believe you Midgardians have succeeded in raising yourself an actual goddess,” Loki says.  His words are calm, but Darcy sees how he scrubs his hands against the hem of his shirt, sees his his fingers are trembling.  “I believe you know her as Death.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Linked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos, bookmarks and comments are much appreciated!
> 
> Fair warning: things are gonna be angsty.

“Death?”  Darcy’s voice shakes.  “ _Death?_ ”

Loki just watches her.  His face is smooth, expressionless.  She wonders how he can just turn his emotions _off_ like that.  She feels like she’s being pulled in a hundred directions, about to explode from the force of everything bubbling up inside her.

“An actual _goddess_?”  She scrapes her hair back from her face, presses her fingers against the fabric of her jeans, just needing to feel something solid beneath her hands.  “But I thought that all the gods and goddesses were just…you?  Asgardians?”

Loki sits down on the floor of his cell, flowing into the position as gracefully as though he’s executing a dance mood.  He arranges his long legs into something like a meditation posture, steeples his fingers.  “Some of those whom Midgardians believe to be divine are of Asgard, yes.  But there are other things in the universe than Asgard.  Darker things, more dangerous.”  His calm slips, just enough for Darcy to see the trembling of his fingers, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

Darcy’s legs are shaking, and she sinks to the floor, moving with considerably less grace than Loki.  She presses her back against the wall, pulls her knees up beneath her chin.  Damp spreads against her jeans where her wrist contacts the fabric, and she realises that the furrows scratched into her skin are still oozing blood.  Now she thinks of it, she can smell it - not the usual bright copper and iron of human blood, but something that smells _black_ , like rot.  Like death.

“Does she…does she have a name?”

Loki tilts his head to the side.  “You could call her Hel, if it makes things simpler.”

“The Norse goddess of the Underworld?”

Loki lifts one eyebrow. 

“I brushed up on my mythology after you and Thor.”  Darcy pulls her legs tighter against her chest, regrets it when the scent of rot increases.  “But how?”

All that moves is Loki’s eyes as they flick to her wrist.  “You, and the others who entered that labyrinth, sacrificed parts of your own selves.  You gave her - gave Hel - life and form.”

Darcy holds out her tattooed wrist.  Red edges the black lines, several purple lines snaking up her arm from the uppermost lines.  It looks like an infection, but when she touches the purple gingerly, she finds that her skin is cold as ice.  Cold, too, is the black blood that oozes out of the scratches.  Her stomach turns; it feels as though her hand belongs to someone else.

“Did we create her?” she asks, folding her hands around her shins again.  Now she’s aware of the cold, she’s aware also that her hand feels half numb, as though it’s encased in an icy glove.

Loki laughs, a short bark.  “Midgardians could not _create_ a goddess.  She existed, as she always has existed.  Think of her as an energy, a thought form.  Your _sacrifice_ gave her physical form.”

Darcy feels ill.  She clenches her numb hand into a fist, feels more blood ooze forth.  “I didn’t know that’s what was happening.  I just wanted not to remember it any more.  I wanted not to feel it.”

“You willingly gave up a piece of your history.  You willingly sacrificed a piece of yourself.  What did you think would happen?”

“I thought I could live the way other people get to!”  She is angry now, and she welcomes the anger.  Better that than fear or pain.  “I thought I could actually get to be free for once.”

Loki looks at her, insufferably calm again.

“You wouldn’t give up your pain?” Darcy asks.  “You have no idea what I lived through.  You have no idea what it’s like to live with a shadow over everything you do.”

Loki’s eyes burn cold.  “I do not presume to know what you, or any other being, has lived through.”  When he speaks, his voice is even, almost completely devoid of emotion.  “I know only what I have experienced, and I know that I would not have surrendered it as easily.”

Darcy pulls her legs even tighter, wishing she could curl herself up so tight that there was no space left around her.  Before, when she thought of the memories she had given up, there had only been freedom, release from the pain that had slid thin fingers into everything in her life.  Now, sitting here, it just feels as though there’s a hole in her heart, deep and dark and endlessly empty.

“You should clean and bandage your wrist,” Loki says.  He might as well have been talking about rubbish he wished her to dispose of.  “You Midgardians are so fragile.”

When Darcy stands, dizziness washes over her, forcing her to lean against the wall for a moment.  She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to faint.  For once, her body actually does what she wants, and she manages to make it into the guard room without falling over.

In the bathroom, she washes her wrist, swabs it with disinfectant from a first aid kit she finds in a cabinet.  The black blood refuses to mix with the water or disinfectant, but separates into droplets like oil.  The rotting scent is even more pungent as she towels off as best as she can, tossing the towel into a corner and vowing never to pick it up again.  She wraps her wrist clumsily in gauze, holding an end of the bandage between her teeth to tie the knot.

As she walks back to the guard room, she catches sight of a bot moving in the opposite direction.  Outside the guard room is a box filled with military rations.  Darcy picks it up, wincing as her injured wrist takes the weight, and takes it inside.

“Guess there’s no more fucking blueberries for you, at least,” she says, stashing the box in a corner.

She busies herself preparing a meal for Loki, setting the food on a tray that she finds in the box.  She guesses she’s going to have to find a way to do Loki’s washing up as well, she thinks sourly, as she works.

She grabs a protein bar and some dried fruit for herself, then makes a cup of coffee, before bringing their meals through into the corridor outside the cell.

Loki hasn’t moved, still seated cross-legged on the floor.  He watches her as she places his tray in the slot, then sits down to her own paltry meal.  He makes no move to take the food.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, _my prince_ , but I guess they’re pissed with you.  Or sick of wasting fresh food on you,” Darcy says.  She takes a huge bite of her protein bar, tries not to show her dislike for the cardboard taste show on her face.

Loki’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.  Darcy wonders why she even bothered to prepare the food for him.  She’s not sure how well the food from the rations are meant to last once they’re prepared.  She should have just left it all packaged up, then at least she could take it to Beth and Ravi-

She pauses mid-bite.  “Wait a minute,” she says, lowering the bar.  “I was at home.  Beth and Ravi were there sleeping, and then…then… _they_ were there.  And then Hel.”  She swallows, her throat gritty from the bar.  “How did I get here?”

“You called to me,” Loki says.  “I answered.”

She blinks.  Blinks again.  “I was _in_ your cell.”  She reaches out and touches the transparent wall with her unbandaged hand.  It feels solid now, like perspex.  That feeling like static electricity washes over her fingers, slides over her skin up to her neck and down her other arm.  When it reaches the tattoo, it stops dead, and she feels a deep aching in the small bones of her wrist and fingers, as though ice is stretching through her marrow.  “How the fuck was I in your cell?”

Loki says nothing.

“And you can stop with the fucking silent and enigmatic act.  Last time I checked, you were the one in prison here.  You’re not the one who gets to be silent.  Answer me!  What the hell happened?”

Loki laces his fingers together, lays them in his lap.  When he speaks, he remains insufferably calm.  “As best as I can tell, in my current state, you and I have become linked.

Darcy snatches her hand away from the perspex.  “ _What?_ ”

“I can assure you that this was not of my choice.”  Loki’s eyes are cold, chips of emerald ice.  “You found yourself in danger, and I was compelled to rescue you.”

Darcy turns away from the cell, presenting him with her back.  As if that makes it any easier.  She can still feel the weight of his gaze on her, still feel his presence as a weight in the world.  _Linked to Loki_.  “So that explains the dreams, too?”

“I assume so.”

His voice comes from directly behind her, but when she turns, he hasn’t moved.  She realises, then, that the intercom is switched off, that she shouldn’t be able to hear him at all.

“It doesn’t block your magic, does it?” she asks.  Her heart pounds painfully, adrenaline coursing through her as her muscles tighten, ready to flee.  “Is this just another one of your tricks, your lies?  Some new scheme to take over the world?”  

He looks away finally, turning his gaze onto his own hands.  “My physical form is imprisoned in this cell, of that I can assure you.  There are…cracks…in the magic that blocks mine.  Someone was careless in the creation of the spells that bind me.  The cracks allow me small magics alone.”

Small magics.  Darcy doesn’t want to think what Loki actually considers small magic.  She worries at a torn fingernail, rubbing the broken edge over and over with her thumb.  Other memories slot into place suddenly, her mind making connections between unconnected things.  “You were out of your cell.  More than once.  I saw you in the city, before I walked into a crater.  And before the labyrinth.”

The corner of Loki’s mouth lifts.  And then, suddenly, a second Loki is standing next to her.  Cold shimmers in the air around him.  The second Loki says nothing, just looks down at her.  Then, just s abruptly as he appeared, he is gone.

“A simple projection,” Loki says.  “Able to be seen but not touched.  Able to warn, but to do nothing more.  Unable to stop foolish Midgardian girls from ignoring said warnings.”  His lips curl.

“But you pulled me away from Hel.”

“Ah.”  Loki flows to his feet.  “That was mostly of your doing, Darcy Lewis.  I merely provided a conduit, and a target.”

“I did _magic_?”

He smiles thinly.  “Not quite.”  He presses a hand against the perspex, examining it.  “If I knew who had constructed this prison.  I thought my-“  He bites off mid-sentence.  “I thought it the work of the Allfather, but his work would not be lax enough to leave any cracks at all.  If he had his way, I would likely be ash.”

Darcy watches him as he speaks.  She hadn’t noticed until she’d seen the projection how much weight he’s lost while being imprisoned.  The image that Loki projected was very different to the man who stands before her: younger, his hair short and general appearance healthier, more well-tended.  The Loki she sees now is thin to the point of gauntness, his hair greasy and tangled, the longest strands reaching well below his shoulders.  As he spreads his fingers out against the perspex, she can see hollows between the bones of his wrists, the places where his veins stand out beneath his skin.

She picks up her protein bar and resumes her own paltry meal, making a mental note to go in search of more supplies so she can feed up both Loki and herself.  Loki watches her as she chews, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows convulsively.

“Oh, for God’s sake, will you just eat?”  She plumps herself down on the floor, her back to the wall.  “It’s not poisoned, and in case you haven’t figured it out yet, no one actually cares if you keep up your hunger strike.”

He frowns, and for a moment she sees a glimpse of the younger, more vulnerable Loki.  “Hunger strike?”

“You know, the whole starving to death bit.  No one but me is watching, and I can assure you that no one cares.”  Darcy stuffs the last of her protein bar into her mouth, chews and swallows.  “Besides, I’ve seen Thor eat, and I know how much you Asgardians can put away.  I’m assuming you can deal with going without food for a while, though, since you’re still clearly alive.”  She tears open the package of raisins.  “Until now, it hasn’t mattered, since I’ve been able to give your food to people who need it more.  But this stuff, I’m not sure if it’ll keep after being opened and heated.  If you’re going to keep on not eating, let me know, and I’ll just take the whole box to people who need it more.  People who are starving because of you, by the way.”

Loki walks slowly over to where the tray is waiting.  He looks down at his food.  Wrinkles his nose.

Darcy rolls her eyes.  “Look, I know it’s not the kind of grand feast you’re probably accustomed to.  And hell, it’s probably just barely edible.  But it’s what our soldiers - _human_ soldiers - are eating, fighting wars that you started.  So you don’t get to act the prima donna right now.  Just eat it, or not, and stop the damn pretence.”

Loki picks up the tray.  Though he looks steady, his hands must be shaking slightly, because the cutlery rattles as he crosses to his table and chairs.  “It was not a ‘hunger strike’.  I was simply aware of the fact that you had given your rations over to others.  I assumed you were eating the food yourself.”

Darcy stares at him, a handful of raisins halfway to her mouth.  “What?”

Loki sets his tray down, then takes a seat himself and begins to eat.  His gaze is unfocused, and he eats mechanically, barely appearing to notice what he is consuming.

Darcy finishes her own food, drinks her coffee.  She’s finished before Loki is even halfway through his meal.  She wants another cup of coffee, but she’s suddenly too damn comfortable where she is.  She leans her head back against the wall, her empty coffee mug loosely cradled in her hands.  Closes her eyes and lets herself drift.

She’s actually sliding into sleep when cold air washes over her.  It takes a massive effort to open her eyes, but when she does, the first thing she sees is Loki standing next to the perspex wall, his hands flat against it.  A projection - the younger, healthier him again - is crouched at her side.  Both Lokis wear an identical expression of concern.

“G’way,” Darcy says.  She bats a hand at the projection.  Her fingers pass through it in the same way they would pass through a beam of light from a movie projector.  Except the air that she touches now is cold, preternaturally still.  Ripples move through the projection as she lets her hand fall, distorting and twisting its features so Loki looks like he’s standing in a funhouse of mirrors.

She can’t help it.  She starts to giggle.

“Darcy?”  

Both Loki and the projection speak simultaneously.  For some reason, this strikes Darcy as even funnier than the distorted projection, and she laughs harder.

“Darcy, I need you to calm down, pay attention.”  Loki - the real Loki - is pressed up against the perspex barrier now.  “You have been bleeding heavily, and I believe that there is a poison in your system from Hel’s touch.  You require medical treatment immediately.”

Still giggling, Darcy lifts up her bandaged arm.  The gauze is soaked solid black, the blood dripping from its edges glistening and thick as oil.  She follows the droplets down to a large pool of blood on the floor.  Looks back up at her arm, sees thick lines of dark purple twining up her arm from beneath the bandage.

As soon as she is aware of those bruise-coloured lines, she feels them.  Like ice in her veins, throbbing in time with a heartbeat not quite synched to her own.  And with every throb, the cold rises higher, closer to her heart.

She’s still laughing, the sound edged with brittle hysteria, more sobbing than true laughter now.  Her arm shakes, and suddenly she can hold its weight up no longer.  She lets it fall; it splashes into the pool of blood with a sound like a rock falling into a deep, deep lake.  She doesn’t feel her hand contact the ground.

The projection shimmers, reaches a hand towards her.  “Darcy!”

She feels like she’s floating.  Adrift, weightless.  Numb.  She lets her eyes close again, doesn’t open them even when that cold air moves over her again.

“ _Darcy!”_

It takes everything she has to force her eyes open again.  Loki is banging his fists against the barrier.  She supposes that it should be making a loud sound, but she can hear nothing.  Even his voice seems to come from far away, a whisper borne on a breeze.

“Darcy, _stay awake_ ,” Loki says.  “You must stay awake.  You must fight the poison.”

Darcy giggles once more.  “Oh yeah, cause who else is going to bring you your gourmet dinners.  Fucking military rations, fucking blueberries, fucking…”  Her eyes are drifting closed again.

“Darcy, _please_.”

That single word is enough for her to force her eyes open again.  She comes back to reality enough that she can feel the throbbing cold in her arm again, the disconcerting sensation that someone else’s heartbeat is moving beneath her skin.

“ _Didyoujustsayplease?_ ” she asks, the words mushing together in her mouth, her lips and tongue rubbery, numb. “ _Didn’tknowyouknewtheword.”_

 _“_ Darcy, you must focus,” Loki says.  “Look at me.  _Look at me._ ”

She does.  His eyes are blazing, pupils wide.

“I cannot leave this cell, and my projection is not strong enough to do what needs to be done,” Loki says.  “I need to touch your skin with my hands.  You must come into the cell.”

She blinks once.  Twice.

“All you need to do is focus, and you will be able to walk through the barrier.  Just get up and walk through.  The rest, I will take care of.”

Darcy turns her head away.  The room sways, keeps swaying even after her vision tells her that her movement has stopped.  She’s drifting again, far enough away that she can’t feel that biting chill, the rising cold.

She can’t feel anything at all. 

Suddenly, it seems as though she’s never really slept before, never been as comfortable and warm and numb as she is right now.  She slides down, curls up on the floor, lets her eyes close.

That cold moves over her skin again.  She ignores it.

It seems that she can hear something, like an echo from far away.  It doesn’t seem to matter now, in the dark behind her eyes.  Nothing matters right now.

She closes her eyes, and the darkness swallows her.

 

 


	18. Trophies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of tasertricks feels here. Lots of Loki feels. Be warned.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who comments and subscribes and leaves kudos. You guys are why I'm still writing this :)

Everything is gold.

Darcy blinks, waits for her vision to clear.  Everything she can see remains gold.

She sits up slowly, dizziness washing over her.  There’s a dull ache in her wrist, something like, but not like, the itching ache you get when a broken bone knits.  When she holds it up, it is unmarked and uninjured.  In fact, the skin is almost too smooth, too perfect.

She’s not alone.  There’s a man standing at the far end of the room.  The wall behind him is made up of some kind of metal mesh, lit from behind.  He is silhouetted against it, and she can see little but his general form.  He is tall, slender.  His hands are held in front of him, as though he clasps something in his hands, but from the angle at which she views him, she cannot see what it is.  He doesn’t move.  He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

There are alcoves set along the sides of the room.  She can see into only one of them.  It holds something like a flame, but it does not move, does not dance.  It is frozen in time.

Behind her, stairs climb up to a door.  Halfway up the stairs, a white-haired man in gold armour stands, one eye hidden behind a patch.  His mouth is open, as though caught mid-speech.  Like the other man, like the flame, he does not move.

“H-hello?”  Darcy’s voice echoes strangely in the room.  “Where am I?”

“A place where trophies are kept.”

She turns again.  Loki emerges from one of the alcoves.  He is wearing his Asgardian armour, sans helmet.  The leather hangs loose on him, and his cheeks are hollow.  His eyes are sunken and ringed by purple shadow.  His hair is shorter than she has ever seen it, the longest strands curling short of his jawline.

At the sight of him, memory floods back.  She remembers the labyrinth, the tattoo, the furrows in her wrist bleeding black blood.  She remembers Hel.  She remembers sinking into darkness.

“This isn’t real, is it?” Darcy asks.  She stands gingerly.  Her legs shake, but they hold her.  She holds up her hand again.  Now she knows what she’s looking for, she can see the lines of the tattoo on her wrist, like mother-of-pearl catching the light.  “Is this a dream?  Nightmare?”

Loki straightens his armour - or tries to, anyway.  All he manages to do is making it hang more from one shoulder than the other.  He looks up, and his eyes fall on the white-haired man in the doorway.  “It is a memory.”

“A memory?”

Loki’s eyebrows draw together, just for an instant, before he smooths his face, adjusts his armour again.  “One that I do not care to show you.  But I required a strong memory to make the connection.  And you, unfortunately, have given away the strongest ones I could access.”

Darcy presses a hand to her sternum, feels that hollow within.  “Oh.”

Loki says nothing, his eyes glittering as he watches her.

Darcy looks past him, at the man silhouetted on the other side of the long room.  She recognises him now she knows what she’s looking for.  “That’s you, isn’t it?”  She looks around at all the gold.  “Is this _Asgard_?”

Loki’s lips thin.  He nods, just barely.

A strong memory.  And, she doubts, a happy one.  Perhaps it is Loki’s most painful memory, even.  Darcy swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

“If you do not _care_ to have me here, then take me back,” she says.  “Break the connection and take me back.”

Loki’s eyes move from her to the white-haired man again.  “It is not that simple.”

“Of course it is.  You made this damn connection.  You clearly don’t want me to be here.”  _And you clearly don’t want to be here yourself._   “Just poof me back.  Abracadabra and all of that.”  Darcy waves her hands for emphasis, winces as a bolt of pain shoots up from her wrist.

The room shimmers around her, black eating into the gold.  She sways, and would have fallen, except Loki is suddenly there, his one hand wrapped around her wrist, the other cradling her waist.  The room solidifies; even the flame flickers for a heartbeat before it stills again.

“You’re dying.”  Loki’s tone is matter-of-fact, but his pupils are wide.  “Outside the memory, you have lost a lot of blood.  There is a great deal of poison in your body.  If you wake, you only have a matter of moments before it reaches your heart.”

“And then?”

“Your heart stops.”

“Oh.”

She is acutely aware of the fact that he has not released her.  That he is close enough to her for her to feel his body heat, to smell the musk and leather of him.  That she can feel his heartbeat, frantic, for all that his expression appears smooth and calm.

“Once, I welcomed my death,” Loki says.  “Would you welcome yours?”

She looks up at him sharply.  “You’re giving me a choice?”

“You gave away parts of yourself, and willingly.  That is generally not the act of one who reaches for life.”

She finds suddenly that she cannot read the emotion in his eyes, not at all.  His fingers are tight on her waist, and her legs are shaking again.  If he let go, she would crumple to the ground.

“You didn’t give anyone a choice.  In New York.”

He looks away.  Not quite fast enough for her to miss the unmistakable shimmer in his eyes.  “No.  I did not.”  His jaw is tight, his voice rough as sand sliding against rock.

Darcy closes her eyes.  When she was younger, she’d thought sometimes of suicide.  When things were bad with her mother, when school was bad.  When one guy too many had assumed that her chest meant that she would gladly fall into bed after a few beers.  Sometimes it made it easier to go to sleep at night, thinking that you could make everything stop of you wanted to.

She’d never gone far enough to actually plan anything, but just the knowledge that she could escape made things easier to bear.

She opens her eyes, glances back at the white-haired man.  “Who is he?”

Loki’s jaw tightens even more.  “I did not bring you here to share.  This place does not matter.”

Darcy chews her lip for a moment.  “This is the deal.  You tell me who he is, and I’ll give you an answer.  Or release the connection right now and let me die.  And how will that look, when someone eventually comes looking for me?  Finds me dead outside your cell, presumably from some kind of magic?”

His eyes narrow.  “You think to _bargain_ with me?”

“I think that you’re the one who’s locked away.”

“You’re the one bleeding to death.”

_You’re the one who still hasn’t let me go._

Darcy looks up at him.  Sees the lines of pain etched beside his eyes.  And suddenly she wants very much to know what - or who - put them there.

“He is Odin.  Allfather of Asgard.”  When Loki finally speaks, his voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Your father?” she asks.  “Thor’s father?”

Loki’s lips twist in an expression caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace.  “He calls himself so.”

Darcy does _not_ miss that careful phrasing.  “What did he do to you?  Was he like…like my father?”

Loki’s eyes meet hers.  Now, she can clearly see the emotions flickering there.  Anger, sorrow, something that almost looks like hope, quickly stilled.

“He promised both of his sons that they would be kings,” Loki says.

“Um, but Allfather kind of implies that there’s only one ruler?”

Loki raises an eyebrow.  “Precisely.”

“So, he was a big fat liar, then.”  Loki’s hold has loosened on her now, his attention on Odin.  “Big whoop.  Plenty of people lie.  Parents suck.  You tell them to shove it and move on.”

“As you did?”

“Kind of didn’t get the chance.  Dropping dead and all of that.  Little bit difficult to confront a headstone.  And I _did_ leave, as soon as I was old enough to.”

Loki is still staring at Odin, his hands even looser now.  Darcy takes her chance.  She pulls away, ducks around Loki and runs as fast as she can down the room.  There’s something more here than just a father lying to his son.

“NO!”  Loki’s voice explodes in the room, and the room shimmers again.  Darcy catches a glimpse of the flame flickering again, knows that the flow of time has been restored.

She’s aware of Loki following, but his distraction has given her enough of a chance that he cannot catch her.  Not before she reaches his other self.

His hands are clasped on either side of an object that was glowing blue.  As she watches, blue rises in a wave over his skin, up his arms, up his neck.  Ridges of skin rise from previously smooth skin, and his eyes flicker from green to burning red.

Loki is leaning over behind his memory self, gasping for breath.  He raises a hand, and time stops again.

“What…what is that sparkly thing doing to you?” Darcy asks.

When Loki finally looks up, his eyes are dull.  Behind him, Darcy can see Odin halfway down the stairs, his own hand held up.

“Answer me, or let me die right now,” Darcy says.  The words come out louder than she had intended, but her voice does not tremble.  She doesn’t quite know how, since she feels like everything inside her is quivering.  This is _Loki_ she’s confronting.  Madman, murderer, would-be dictator.

Except he looks like nothing of these things, not here.  He looks broken.  He looks like a man bent beneath the weight of his sin.

“That _sparkly_ thing is the Casket of Ancient Winters.”  Loki speaks with his eyes on the blue light, his shoulders slumped.  “It is a trophy taken by Odin from the Jotuns.  The Frost Giants.  It is also a weapon.”

“And?”

He looks up at her, and she has never seen him look so young, so broken.  “It is a weapon that can only be wielded by a Frost Giant.”

Darcy frowns, looking up at Odin.  “But your father-“

“-Is not my father.  As Thor is not my brother.”  Loki circles around so he is standing before his memory self.  “When Asgard defeated Jotunheim, Odin brought home another trophy.  A Jotun child, unusually small for a Frost Giant.”

Darcy stares at the two Lokis, her eyes moving from the Jotun to Asgardian standing opposite each other, mirror images distorted.  

“He never told you, did he?” she asks.  “This is how you found out.  By accident.”

Loki shakes his head, his eyes on his Jotun self.

“Does Thor know?”

Another shake of his head, and then his eyes drop.  He wraps his arms around himself, the leather of his armour creaking and cracking.

“Well, fuck, I’d be pissed, too,” Darcy says.  “Maybe not take-over-the-world pissed, but I’m not a god, so…”  She waves her hand, and another bolt of pain jolts up from her wrist.  This one feels as though there are splinters in her bones, grinding in her marrow.  She sways, and Loki is there immediately, one hand around her wrist, the other around her waist.  He holds her tight this time, her body pressed against his.

“Are you not revolted?” he asks, his eyes searching her face.  “Do you not quake with fear to know what I am?”

“Well, all I know is that you’re blue.  Or can be blue.”  Darcy frowns, then laughs.  “Fucking blueberries.”

“You laugh and joke?”  Loki’s arms tighten around her, hard enough that she is forced to stop laughing, just so she can breathe.  “I am a _Frost Giant_.  The Jotun are the mortal enemies of Asgard.  A race that would have enslaved your world!”

“And you know nothing about that, right?”

He looks away.

“So why are they Asgard’s mortal enemies?”

Loki looks back at her, frowning.  “What?”

“Why hate them?  What did they do?”

“They are our enemies.”

“So, you hate them because you’ve been told to hate them?  It’s not like Asgard’s exactly shied away from war.”  Darcy looks past Loki, looks at the trophies arrayed around the room.  “Let me guess, everything here was pretty much a spoil of war?”

Loki blinks.  “I do not…I do not understand you.”

“Well, get in line.”

The room around them shimmers again; time is moving again with Loki distracted.  The memory Loki turns, walks towards Odin.  Darcy turns to watch their exchange, aware of Loki’s eyes searching her face.

And she watches it all, hears it all.

Loki pauses time only once the guards have entered the trophy room.  When Darcy turns back to him, her cheeks are wet with tears.

“When we go back, what do I have to do?” she asks.

She feels Loki’s breath hitch in his chest.  “You must rouse yourself enough to pass through the barrier and into my cell.  There, I can withdraw the poison from your flesh.  The blood loss, you will require human medical aid for.  With the poison neutralised, you should be able to summon help.”

Darcy looks up at him.  A single tear winds down his cheek.  Without thinking, she reaches up and brushes it away.  Loki stiffens slightly, but he does not pull away.

“You trust me, Darcy?” he asks softly.  “Even after seeing what I am?”

“Well, who else is going to bring you your food?”  She tries to keep her tone light, fails.  “So, I just have to haul my carcass through a solid barrier?”

“It is only solid because you believe it to be so.”

“Right, and I’ll just work on that belief with my poisoned, blood-deprived brain.”  She smiles.  “Piece of cake.”

He looks at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.  “You must focus on me.  On my voice.  You may not be able to see well when you return to your physical body.”

“Two pieces of cake, then.”

He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair back from her face.  It is a curiously intimate gesture, one that makes her aware of how tightly she is pressed against him.

“If…if things do not proceed well, then thank you for the blueberries.”

Loki smiles, a single dazzlingly true smile, and then the trophy room fades away.

 

*

 

Darcy comes back to pain.

That deep, grinding pain in her wrist moves up her arm.  It feels as though someone is pulling a thread studded with broken glass through her veins, grinding it against her nerves.

The pain is all she is aware of, until she hear’s Loki’s voice calling her name.

She looks up, blinking against darkness crowding her vision.  As soon as she tries to focus on anything external, it all crashes in.  The deep rotting scent of the wide pool of black blood she lies in.  The frantic beating of her heart, the feeling that her ribcage is too tight around her lungs, that no matter how deep she tries to breathe in, she cannot get enough oxygen.

The knowledge that she is _dying_.

“Darcy!”  Loki’s voice breaks through again.  “Darcy, you must _move_.”

It takes far too much effort to focus on him.  He is kneeling against the perspex barrier, his hands pressed so hard against it that his palms are bloodless.  In a sudden moment of clarity, she sees that the lines on his palm are in the same formation as any human’s.  That his lifeline twists and turns, breaks and is reformed over and over again.

“Darcy, _please.”_

She tries to pull herself up.  Falls back down again, her legs numb, useless.  Right, then, she has to drag herself.  It’s only a metre or so.  Nothing at all.

_Piece of cake.  Two pieces of cake._

She pulls herself along the floor, trying to ignore the sickening sensation of clotting, jellied blood sliding against her skin, her clothes.  The scent of rotting increases, slides down her throat, until it feels as though she is breathing in death itself.

It seems to take an age, but finally she reached the barrier.  Reaches up, presses her hand against it.  It is completely, and utterly solid.  Impenetrable.

Loki has pressed himself close to the floor now, mirroring her position.  “Darcy, you only need to focus.  Remember that it is a magic barrier.  Know that it will let you through.”

She meets his eyes.  Sees the tears there.

Reaches up again and touches the barrier.  From far away, she feels that tingling warmth move over her skin.  It pushes away something of the darkness, rolls over her body.  A scent like violets, like the scent of rain on dry earth, washes over her, pushing away the scent of rot.

She seems to see the figure of a woman standing over her, and then she is falling through the barrier, being pulled through it by Loki.

She lies in his arms, that numbness creeping up through her body.  She is heavy, so heavy, and it takes too much effort to breathe, to keep her eyes open.  She just wants to stay here, to close her eyes, to let that darkness slide over her, to fall into a place where she doesn’t have to feel anything bad or painful ever again.

Except Loki is there, his green eyes brimming with tears, and his long fingers are stroking at her cheek.  And she is seeing him as probably no one else ever has, all of his masks stripped away.

It takes more effort than anything else has in her life, but she reaches up, brushes her fingers against his.  

He twines his fingers with hers, holds them tight for a moment, tears spilling over onto his cheeks.  “I need to remove the poison, Darcy,” he says, his voice shaking.  “In order to do so, I need to breach your skin, just a little.”  He lifts her hand to his lips, kisses her palm.  “If we had more time…”  He closes his eyes briefly.  “I am sorry, Darcy, but this is going to hurt.”

She has no energy to speak, to do anything but look at him, hope that he can see her assent in her eyes.

Loki slides her ring finger into his mouth, hesitates for a heartbeat, and then bites down, hard enough to break through skin, hard enough to crunch bone.  Darcy cannot even moan as the pain increases a thousandfold, her vision dimming to static.

The world dissolves to fragments.  The gentle touch of Loki’s hands on her hand, her wrist her arm, his fingers stroking against her skin.  His touch is gentle, but what he invokes is anything but.  It feels as though a thorny vine has spiralled through her body, and every touch he makes pulls it out, just a little.  The tiniest movements only, the vine straining against him the whole time, and each infinitesimal movement is agony.

She loses herself in the pain.  Feels as though she dies and is resurrected, over and over and over.

And then, suddenly, it is over.

There is no pain.  No thorny vine.  No darkness.

She opens her eyes.  Loki is sitting with his back to the wall of his cell, her limp body propped against him, supported by one arm around her waist, his legs at her sides.  He has his other hand wrapped around her tattooed wrist and he is murmuring, his lips moving against her temple.  Light somewhere between emerald and sapphire flares from his fingers, and her hand goes completely numb.  When he opens his fingers, she sees that the lines of the tattoo have changed from black to emerald, the furrows that Hel had scored through her skin thick white scars.

After a moment, sensation flows back into her hand.  It still feels partially numb, as though the outermost layers of skin are frozen, but she’ll take that any time over the bone-splintering pain.

She feels utterly wrung out, her body lax with the kind of limpness that comes after a week-long fever breaks.

Loki tucks her partially numb hand against her ribs, wraps his arms around her.  He presses a kiss to her temple, and she can feel a heartbeat there, and she’s not certain if it’s his or hers.

“You must do one more thing,” he says.  His voice is husky with emotion, or perhaps fatigue.

“Wanna stay here,” she mumbles.

She feels him smile against her skin.  “You require a blood transfusion, Darcy.  Stark has the facilities for such here.  You need to leave the cell, get to your phone and call for help.”

She closes her eyes.  “Comfy.”

“ _Darcy_.”

“Okay, okay.”

Loki carries her to the barrier.  It’s easier to move through this time, though she collapses in an undignified pile of limbs as soon as she’s on the other side.

The pool of black blood is drying now, its surface shimmering with rainbows.  It’s wider than she thought, and she wonders how she could even have that much blood in her body.

“Darcy, you must get to your phone,” Loki says.  “You will go into shock very soon.”

She crawls, skirting around the black pool as much as she is able.  It seems to take forever to reach her phone, but eventually she does.  Fumbles it down off the table, calls the first number she can pull up.

“Help,” she says, her voice little more than a whisper.  “I need help.”

The phone falls from her fingers then.  She has no energy to pick it up again.

Distantly she is aware of Loki projecting an image of himself, crouching beside her, speaking into the phone.

Everything dissolves into static.

 

 


	19. Locked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for everyone who's following alone, leaving comments and kudos. Thank you to everyone who's wandered over to follow me at Tumblr too (and those who supply me with Hiddles pictures!!)

Darcy’s eyes feel like they weigh a thousand tonnes.

It takes all of her effort to force them open.  And once they are open, she’s not even sure that she’s seeing right.  Everything is white.  White ceiling.  White walls.  White door.  No windows.

A light is recessed into the ceiling above her, the humming of the fluorescent tube the only sound in the room.  In the corner above the door, a security camera is covered by a tough plastic dome.  Its red light blinks on and off, like a watching eye blinking.

Darcy stares at the camera for a long time, wondering who’s watching her.

Something pinches in her left arm.  There’s an IV needle inserted into the crook of her elbow.  She manages to move her head enough to see an IV pole bolted to the wall behind the bed.  It holds two bags feeding into her arm: one of clear liquid, the other blood.  

Her muscles are stiff and aching, and she wonders how long she’s been lying in this position.  She tries to shift her weight.

She cannot.

Something too close to panic blooms in her then.  She cannot see the restraints around her wrists, her ankles, her ribcage, but they are there all the same.

As she pulls against the unseen restraints, she also becomes aware that there is something wrong with her right hand.  She cannot feel it at all, cannot move it.  She manages to twist her wrist in the restraint a little, and the light around her hand _bends_ , _twists_ , as though her hand is underwater.  She cannot see any of the details of her hand: not her nails, not the freckles dusting her knuckles.  It looks as though her hand has been sliced off, replaced by a block of featureless marble.

She cannot hold her head up any longer.  She lets it fall back against the stacked pillows.  Sweat trickles from her temples into her hair, and her breath comes fast, making her all too aware of the band around her ribs.

She closes her eyes, and everything rushes back to her, like a black wave cresting, then crashing.

The labyrinth, the tattoo, the black blood, Hel.

Loki.

Loki biting her finger, removing Hel’s poison from her body.

Loki begging her to move through the magical barrier on his cell so he could heal her.

Loki projecting out of his cell in order to summon help.

Loki.  Saving her life.

True panic spikes in her then.  She is God knows where, strapped down to a bed with God knows what dripping into her veins.

What would someone have assumed, coming down into the guard room, finding her almost dead in a pool of black blood?  Her blood on Loki’s hands, on his lips, in his cell.  And Loki clearly able to leave his cell in some form.

She struggles against her restraints again, glaring at the security camera.  “Hello?  Whoever is watching this, I need to talk to someone!  Now!”

Nothing happens.

She collapses back against the pillows again.  The sheets are soaked with her sweat.  It smells bitter, as though she’s been sweating out more of the poison.

This time, the dampness trickling into her hair is her tears.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before the door finally opens. It might have been minutes.  It might have been days.  

Jane enters the room.  She’s wearing white scrubs, her bare feet clad in matching socks.  She looks exhausted, her eyes hollow and bloodshot.

Just before Jane pulled the door closed, Darcy catches a glimpse of the corridor outside.  A man and a woman stand in silence, both poised and alert.  Both were black fatigues, and the woman’s hair is bright red.

Darcy has never met either of them, but she recognises them both.  Hawkeye and the Black Widow.  Guarding _her_.

Jane lingers near the door, fidgets with the hem of her shirt.  Her fingers are stained with ink, and they leave black marks on the white cotton.

“Um, hi?” Darcy asks.

Jane tries to smile.  The expression dies halfway to her eyes.  There is more ink smudged beneath her lower lashes, on her lips.  “How are you feeling?”

“Like I had a lot of blood drained out of me, and not in a fun way.  Assuming there is a fun way.”  Darcy forces a smile; she hopes her attempt is more successful than Jane’s had been.  “If superheroes and aliens exist, do vampires?”

“You lost over forty percent of your blood volume.”  Jane’s voice is cool, her eyes on the IV bags.  “This might be the last transfusion, depending on your bloodwork.  They’ll run fluids for a while, but it will take a while to get over the physical trauma.”

Silence, broken only by the steady dripping of fluids through tubes.

“And what about the restraints?  Which I’m assuming are Stark tech of some kind, by the way, and kind of freaky and awesome all at the same time.”  Darcy fights to keep her voice calm.  “What about the assassins in the corridor?  I thought they were off in Russia somewhere.”

“They go where they’re needed.”  Jane’s eyes are on the IV, on the ceiling, on the floor.  Looking at anything but Darcy.  “They’re here in case you’ve been compromised.”

“Compromised?  By what?”  Darcy feels suddenly ill.  “Not by what.  By _who_.”

Jane crosses her arms, her eyes still darting everywhere.  “We were close to getting the wormhole opened, and then everything just…stopped.  We could reach out a certain distance, but then it was like we hit a physical barrier.  Something started interfering with communications on the ground, computer equipment, everything.  Stark Tower went into lockdown, and the Avengers were called back.  All those who could get here, anyway.”  Jane chews her lip.  “We’ve been trying to figure out what’s happening, if it’s something that we caused, and then Pepper gets a call from Daniel Blackwood telling us that he had _Loki_ on the phone begging for medical help.  We go down there, find him unresponsive, blood everywhere, blood in his _cell_ , and you almost dead.  What the hell happened?”

The sickness roiling in Darcy’s stomach turns suddenly to anger.  “What _happened_ is that I got thrown into this job with no guidance, no help, nothing.  No one asked me, no one told me anything.  What’s the point in having Loki just locked away down there, anyway?  Shouldn’t his family be trying to help him?  I mean, he fucked up, but the way I see things, they kind of laid out the whole path for him.  _They_ broke _him_.  And that includes your precious _boyfriend_.”

Jane’s forehead creases, as though Darcy’s words are causing her physical pain.  “This is his family helping him,” she says softly.  “They’re the ones who approached Tony with the deal.”

“Deal?  So what’s Stark getting out of it?”

Jane glances at the closed door, then crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the bed.  The mattress barely moves at all beneath her weight.  Darcy can see the shadows of bones beneath her scrubs, and wonders how long it’s been since Jane ate a proper meal.

“I wanted to tell you some of this, but it was part of the agreement,” Jane says.  “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you any of this now, but I figure you’re owed some answers.  And I don’t see what difference it makes now.”  She looks down at her hands as she speaks.  “Asgard managed to get part of the Bifrost working again.  It had limited power, and it was fragile.  When I heard, I came.  I expected Thor, of course.  With the way the world is, we need him.  But Asgard had a different plan.  They sent Loki, along with the tech - the _magic_ \- needed to construct his cell, to keep him and his magic contained.  Natasha and Clint wanted to just execute Loki on the spot, but Tony, Bruce and Steve talked them around.”

“So Stark gets tech.” Darcy nods at her restraints, the peculiar whatever-it-is on her hand.  “Like this?”

Jane’s silence is all the answer she needs.

“So Asgard gets to not have to deal with Loki, and Tony Stark gets new toys.  Nice deal for everyone.  Except Loki.”

“I didn’t think you’d get involved in this, Darce.  You were supposed to just be working as a PA.  Things got mixed up.  We didn’t know that Daniel Blackwood would recruit you to guard Loki.  By the time we found out, it was too late for us to do anything.  I tried to do as much as I could to make it easier.”  Jane twists her fingers together so hard her knuckles turn white.  “I’m sorry, Darce.  None of this was meant to happen.  You were just supposed to get your apartment, food, safety.  And we’d fix the city, and then everything would be okay, and you could get back to your life.”

“And what about Loki?  He was just going to be locked away to rot while Stark builds a brave new world?”

“He’s a war criminal.  He has to be punished.”

“He’s locked away in an empty room.  Not even a magazine, or music or books or anything.  That seems like cruel and unusual punishment to me.”

Jane’s eyes slide away.

Darcy bites back a sigh.  “How long am I going to be restrained?  How long will I be guarded?”

Jane’s cool, clinical mask falls easily into place.  “You’ll be in medical care here for another day or two.  Just until you’re medically stable.  The restraints have to stay on while you’re here.  The doctors and nurses insist.  After you’re released from here, you’ll be confined to your apartment.”  She doesn’t say it, but Darcy hears the _indefinitely_ added to the end of the sentence.  “What happened, Darcy?  The cell wasn’t made to be opened by anyone except Odin.  It was supposed to block all of Loki’s magic.  How did he get out?  How did he block the wormhole?”

Darcy looks down at her wrist.  She wishes suddenly that she could see the tattoo.  She can only half remember the black lines turning green, sinking into her skin.  She looks at her other wrist.  There’s a white scar on her ring finger.  That’s another half memory, Loki biting down.  She wonders if he sucked out the poison, the way people in movies always seem to suck out snake venom after bites.  She can’t decide if the thought is repellent or heart wrenching.

“He didn’t get out of the cell,” Darcy says.  “He can project through the barrier.”

“He can _project?_   Like the way he killed Coulson?”  Jane is off the bed again, moving back to stand with her back to the door.  “You didn’t report that.”

“He hadn’t done anything _to_ report.  And things have been…confused.  I’ve been looking after people in the city, and then there was the labyrinth, and…”  Darcy wants suddenly very much to be able to turn away from Jane’s hard stare, but she doesn’t want to think what Jane would interpret that turning away as.  “Loki did nothing to your work.  He can’t.  And he didn’t have anything to do with what happened to me.  He saved my life.”

“Suddenly you seem to know a lot about him.  You’re very sure of what he can and can’t do.  If he can project, who can say what else he can do?”

“Why would he be in that cell if he didn’t have to be?”

“This is _Loki_.  God of lies, master of the long game.  Who knows what he’s planning?  He’s tried to kill his own brother, Darcy.  He tried to conquer the world.  Why would he-“  Jane bites off the sentence half finished.

Darcy knows what she was going to say.  “Why would he save me?  Because I’m no one, right?  Why would anyone bother to save me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”  Jane’s looking away now, looking down at her own hands.  Her nails are chewed and ragged.  “Your blood was inside Loki’s cell, Darcy.  How, if he didn’t open it?”

“I went through the barrier.”

Jane shakes her head.  “Impossible.  That barrier is impenetrable.”

“Is that what you were told?  Who’s trusting the gods now?”

Jane’s eyes flick up.  They are hard as stone.  “Thor trusts his father.  His _father_ doesn’t lie.”

“Oh yeah, the rest of the Asgardians are totally trustworthy.  They never manipulate humans at all.”

Jane swipes her hands through her hair again, tugs hard.  She doesn’t seem to notice that her fingers come away clotted with shed hair.  “It’s going to be okay, Darcy.  The doctors will get you physically stable, then we’ll move you into your apartment.  Tony has some good people on staff.  They’ll work with you, help you to be able to see how Loki has manipulated you.  Just trust us, and you’ll be able to see everything clearly.  It’s all going to be okay.  You’re with friends now.”

“Oh, I’m seeing clearly.  Including seeing how my _friends_ , the people I’m supposed to be trusting, have me in _restraints_ , with some kind of tech on my hand that they probably don’t even understand.”

Jane is smiling and nodding, her face the smooth mask of a parent placating a hysterical child.  “It’s just evaluating those marks, that’s all.  Making sure that they’re not a threat.  It spiked some of Stark’s sensors, and he just wants to be certain.”

“Loki has made some bad decisions, and he’s done some bad things, but not to me, Jane.  He had nothing to do with that tattoo.”

Jane’s mask doesn’t slip.  “Then why did it register as Asgardian magic?”

Darcy knows that she should tell Jane about Hel.  But telling that would lead to her telling why she was so willing to walk into the labyrinth.  About the memories she’s given up.  She’s not ready to talk about that with the Jane who stands here, a woman who looks like her friend, except for the deep distrust in her eyes.

“You don’t need to worry about anything now,” Jane says when Darcy doesn’t answer.  “Loki isn’t going to be given the chance to influence you further.  All you need to focus on is resting and getting better.  Let us help you.”

“And what about Loki?  Who’s going to help him?”

Jane smiles, a thin, strained expression.  “Loki will be taken care of.”

Ice slides down Darcy’s spine.  “What does that mean?”

“It means that it’s none of your concern now.  We’ve got this, Darcy.  You just rest.  Know that you’re safe now.”

And she’s out of the room, the door pulled closed quickly behind her.

“Jane?  Jane!  What did you mean?” Darcy screams at the door.  It doesn’t open again.  “What are you doing to Loki?”

The only answer is the echo of her own voice.

By the time a nurse bustles in, enough time has lapsed for Darcy to have screamed herself hoarse.  The nurse says nothing, doesn’t meet Darcy’s eyes as she slides a syringe into the IV.  Cold liquid flows into Darcy’s veins, dragging her down into the cotton depths of medicated sleep.

 

*

 

Three days later, Darcy is moved to the apartment on the nineteenth floor.

Jane did not return, and none of the doctors and nurses who came in would speak to Darcy, would answer none of her questions.  Darcy glimpsed either Black Widow or Hawkeye in the corridor any time the door was opened.  Neither would respond to her calls.

When Darcy’s restraints are finally removed, it is by a security guard with at least three times the body mass as her, none of it fat.  He says nothing, just presses buttons on a small device he wears at his belt.  The restraints around her wrists, ankles and ribs vanish, leaving behind a faint chill.  The guard presses buttons on another, smaller device, and the whatever-it-is on her hand dissolves.  Static crackles over her skin.

She tries to move, finds that she can’t, her muscles frozen into place.  The guard seems prepared for this, for he says nothing, just picks her up and sets her down in what looks like a white plastic wheelchair, carefully negotiating her IV lines.  Another button, and more restraints close over her, these as invisible as the ones on the bed.  Unlike the bed, the chair also has a band that closes over her mouth, sealing her lips.

The sheets on the bed show no sign of whatever devices generate the restraints.  Darcy can, however, see the faint outline of her body, the white sheets yellowed where she had lain.  She looks smaller than she imagines.

A nurse enters, a woman that Darcy hasn’t seen before.  Like the guard, she says nothing, just sets to work removing Darcy’s IV.  There’s an angry purple bruise where the needle entered her skin, the blood clotted black.  The nurse cleans and wraps gauze around the site.  Darcy doesn’t miss the fact that she wears two pairs of latex gloves layered on top of each other, or that the guard keeps himself between the nurse and Darcy, while still allowing the nurse room to work.

The nurse stands, surveys Darcy.  Her expression is unreadable.  Darcy wants to believe that there’s some sympathy in her eyes, but admits that the sheen there is more likely fear.

Loki was bound and gagged when he was returned to Asgard from Midgard.

Do they fear her now as much as they feared Loki?

The nurse produces a syringe, jabs Darcy’s arm.  It’s a sedative, lighter than what she has been given to make her sleep.  It’s enough to haze the edges of the world, though.  Enough to make Darcy unaware of the directions they take in corridors, to be unaware if anyone else is there besides the guard.  There’s an elevator ride that seems to go on forever, and then the wheelchair is being pushed into a long corridor.  Darcy blinks slowly, registering soft lighting, a window at the end of the hallway.  Two doors only lead from the corridor, staggered so that one doesn’t open onto the other.

The guard presses buttons on a small security panel, pushes Darcy’s wheelchair through the left-hand door.  Something pricks against Darcy’s arm again, though the first drug has her hazy enough that she can’t register if the nurse has appeared again, or had been there all along.

There is only white for a long time.

 

*

 

When the white rolls away, ebbing away from her mind like the ocean revealing a long-buried shipwreck, Darcy is alone.

She is lying on a bed, the mattress plush but firm beneath her.  There are no restraints, and her muscles feel loose.

She sits up slowly.  Her head swims slightly, but the movement is tolerable.  She is no longer wearing her hospital gown; instead she is garbed in a set of white scrubs identical to the ones Jane had been wearing.  Her skin smells like antiseptic, soap, and some kind of sharp liniment.   Had they washed her, massaged her, while she was unconscious?  The thought makes her shudder.

The room she is in is large, the walls painted a pale greenish-blue.  The bed is pale wood - maple, she thinks, and solid.  It barely moves beneath her weight as she swings her feet out, stands.  There is white carpet on the floor.  A long-ago memory surfaces: her mother vacuuming the shabby carpet in her bedroom.  Talking about the kind of people who bought white carpet.  The kind of people who could afford to have someone else clean it for them.

Darcy’s feet feel tender, almost bruised.  The feeling lets up as she circles the room slowly.  The walls are complemented by a navy blue quilt.  It is thick and luxurious.  Silk, she thinks.  Matching curtains swathe what she assumes is a floor-to-ceiling window.  That, and the carpet, are enough to tell her that she’s in Stark Towers.

A walk-in wardrobe opens up on one side of the room.  It is larger than the bedroom in the apartment that used to be hers.  Though most of the racks and shelves are empty, there are clothes here.  Jeans, sweaters, shirts.  Even a neat stack of knitted hats and caps.

A door leads through from the wardrobe into a bathroom.  Here everything is sea-green and white.  There’s a tub with jacuzzi jets, a medicine cabinet stocked with shampoo, soap, cosmetics.  No medications.

Darcy follows the next door back into a corridor, turns to see the bedroom behind her at the end of the hall.  The walls here are cream, lit by recessed ceiling lights bathing everything in warm illumination.  More white carpet makes the space seem larger than it is.  As she walks, she notes that there are several places on the walls where paintings have been removed.

Two rooms open up near the end of the hallway.  One contains what looks like a well-stocked gym’s worth of fitness equipment.  The other is lined with bookshelves on one side and a small desk on the other.

The latter room, she enters.  The far wall is covered with the same dark blue drapes as the bedroom.  Something like hope rises in her as she scans the bookshelves, finds them full.  It falls slightly when she sees that the books are mostly light fiction, the kind of fluff she’d only pick up if she was waiting at the doctor or dentist.  A few biographies about movie stars, but nothing heavy, nothing that would require actual _thought_.

The desk is empty.  A plate in the wall is set with network sockets, and a faint rectangle of dust on the pale wood reveals where a computer has, until recently, rested.

So, they weren’t going to trust her with a computer, or medication, or decent literature.  She supposes she should be thankful that she’s not in a cell twin to Loki’s.

Though, maybe if they had two of them, she would be.

At the thought of Loki, that ice moves down her spine again.  What have they done to him?

Only now does she register the tiny security camera in the corner of the room.  Retraces her steps, finds them in every room, the bathroom included.  That realisation makes her feel ill, and she has to fight not to cross her arms over her breasts, even though she is clothed, even though whoever is watching has already likely seen her naked.

She feels half numb as she moves through into the main living space.  Barely registers an open-plan kitchen, all white and stainless steel, a television screen and entertainment system, couch and chairs enough to seat a dozen people.  More curtains drawn over the windows.

Here, also, is the door that the guard had pushed her wheelchair through.  From the outside, it had looked like any other door.  But from inside, it looks anything but.

The handle has been removed, and the entire inner surface banded over with steel.

Darcy sinks down onto the couch, pulls her knees up to her chest.  She’s only just aware that she’s rocking back and forth like a child.  She lets the rhythm take her, rocking further and further to the side with each movement.  In the corners of her vision, security cameras blink their red lights, watching.

Finally, she rocks far enough to one side that she falls onto her side.  The plush cushions rise around her, cradling her weight.  And suddenly she’s as tired as though the nurse has somehow, magically, administered another sedative.  Darcy eyes the cameras, thinking of the invisible restraints.  For all she knows, the nurse _can_ dose her whenever she wants, using some magic taken from Asgard.

She unwraps her arms from her ribs, presses her palms together in front of her face.  She can see the tattoo on her wrist now.  The black has faded to green, the colour faintly metallic in the light, as though gemstones have been crushed and inlaid into her skin.  She traces the lines of the curlicues with a finger; the green feels slightly cool to the touch.

She feels no menace from the tattoo, no dread.  There is only comfort.

She lets her eyes drift closed, slides into sleep.

And wishes to dream.

 

*

 

And dream she does.

There is a moment of darkness, a sensation like falling.

And then there is ground beneath her feet.  She falls gracefully into a kneeling position, her hands pressed against the warm wood of the floor.

A soft sound makes her look up.

A woman looks down at her.

 

 

 

 


	20. Convocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who is reading along. Especial thank you to the people who leave comments, and who post reaction gifs on Tumblr. They are my crack, seriously.
> 
> I apologise for any self medication you need after this chapter. I kind of need a tranquilliser myself after writing it. All the feels. All of them.

The woman stands wreathed in shadows.  Her features are blurred by the darkness, making it impossible to determine who she is.

Darcy’s heart pounds, and her blood rushes in her ears, loud as the sea beating against stone.  At first, she thinks it must be Hel standing above her, but there is no fear, no slide of ice through her veins.  This is not Hel.  This is someone different.  Someone, perhaps, as powerful, though, as Hel, if not more.

The woman reaches out a hand.  Her fingers are long, her nails trimmed short.  Darcy hesitates a fraction of a second, then takes it, lets the woman draw her to her feet.

As their skin meets, a warm tingle moves over Darcy’s palm.  It feels almost as though the air trapped between their hands has filled with static electricity mingling with the heated, shimmering air that rises off an open fire.  It is soothing, and Darcy feels her heartbeat slow, become more even.

The woman’s other hand comes up, and she presses two fingers to the centre of Darcy’s forehead.  That tingling warmth comes again, and Darcy feels something shift within her.  Like a door opening, like a fall of stones turned to nothing more dense than light.

Darcy’s awareness of her body retreats.  She sees her mind as a still, dark pool, flickering golden lights dancing over the surface.

And then the memories come, rising like bubbles from the dark depths of her mind, rising towards the golden lights.

She sees the moment she met Thor, unconscious against the Bifrost-marked desert sand.  She feels the woman smile as Darcy, in memory, tases Thor.

Thor eating his body weight of pancakes and Pop-Tarts.

Thor and Jane.

Thor saving them all from the Destroyer.

The golden lights dip lower, and more memories rise.

The first time Darcy saw Loki, seemingly catatonic in his cell.  The woman’s smile fades, then, watching Darcy bring Loki’s trays.  Packing up the untouched food to take to others.

Darcy touching the barrier, yelling her frustration and anger at Loki.  That warm tingling over her skin from the contact.

Darcy dreaming herself on top of Stark Tower, standing on the precipice.  Loki behind her, supporting her, as the dream shifted to the house.

Darcy dreaming of Yrsa, of Bera.

Loki projecting.  Saving Darcy from the hole in the street.  Warning her not to enter the labyrinth.

Darcy in the labyrinth, offering up her pain.

Darcy bringing Loki food, bringing Loki books.

Loki, showing Darcy the truth of his origins.

Darcy dreaming of the masked ball, of dancing with Loki, retreating to the bedroom with him-

The woman breaks contact then, withdrawing her hand from Darcy’s.  Darcy leaves her hand outstretched for a moment, half blinded from the rush of memory.  She lowers it slowly, her palm still tingling where the woman had touched her.

That tingling is familiar.  And she knows, suddenly, who this woman is.

“You’re Frigga,” she says.  “Loki’s mother.”

The woman - Frigga - inclines her head.

“You should have asked.”  Darcy blurts out the words without thinking.  “Some of those memories, they weren’t mine to share.”

Frigga stills.  The shadows gather close, a solid weight against Darcy’s skin.  Darcy’s breath hitches in her throat.  What is she _doing_?  Isn’t it bad enough that she tased Thor, she has to go and say something like that to _Frigga_ as well?

“I - I’m sorry,” she says.

“You should not apologise,” Frigga says.  “It was wrong of me, to take without permission.  It has been a long time since I have had dealings with one of Midgard.  I forget that your ways are not ours.”  She pauses, the weight of the shadows lifting somewhat.  “For what it is worth, you have helped to answer some questions that I have had about my son.  I did not know of Yrsa.  She was Odin’s doing, not mine.  And I have oft wondered of Loki’s attachment to solitude.”

The shadows in the room lift entirely, are replaced by flickering golden light.  The space is small, intimate, holding little more than two chairs flanking a fireplace.  Everything is gold or warm wood, the chairs upholstered with blue silk.

Frigga inclines her head, a small smile curving her lips.  She is tall, what Darcy would describe as statuesque.  Her honey blonde curls are loose but for two jewelled combs.  Her gown is silk, of a colour caught between gold and olive, darker emerald glimmering in the folds.  Plates of gold armour wrap her waist, cap her shoulders.

Frigga sweeps across the room, sinks down into one of the chairs, indicates that Darcy should do the same.  Darcy finds herself trying to imitate Frigga’s easy grace as she walks.  Any chance she has of emulating it ends when she looks down, realises she’s wearing white scrubs, her hair loose and bedraggled.

Frigga’s eyes twinkle as she smiles.  “You can garb yourself however you choose here.”

Darcy looks up.  “This is a dream?”

“Of a kind.”

Darcy closes her eyes, concentrates on changing her clothes.  She imagines the kind of clothes she feels safe and comfortable in: jeans, a sweater, knitted cap and boots.  When she opens her eyes, she sees only dark emerald velvet.  It’s the gown she wore in the ballroom dream with Loki, the green trimmed with gold.  Her hair is arranged in neat curls, and she can feel the soft bite of the two combs holding back strands from her face.  She feels her cheeks flush.

“His colours suit you,” Frigga says, smiling again.  “Come, join me.”

Darcy sits down, arranging the skirt of her gown so the slit falls to the side.  She settles her weight, and she flushes again as she realises she’s not wearing anything underneath the gown.  The thought rises unbidden, that if Loki were here, she could easily cross her legs, allow the fabric of the skirt to fall aside.  Loki would kneel at her feet, his hands sliding from her ankle to her knee, higher…

She pulls herself away from the thoughts, her cheeks hot.  Frigga, thankfully, is concentrating on a small table that sits next to her chair.  There’s a breath of warm air, and two goblets of chased gold appear.  Frigga holds one out to Darcy.

“It helps to ground you in the dream state, to eat or drink,” Frigga says.

Darcy gulps at her wine.  She tastes spices, the wine as warming in her belly as the fire is on her skin.

“It was you who constructed Loki’s cell, wasn’t it?” Darcy asks.  “Or at least, you placed the spells on it.  I think everyone assumes that it was Odin who did it, or ordered it, but he didn’t.  Or maybe he did, and then you changed things.”

Frigga smiles over the rim of her goblet.

Darcy looks at Frigga’s blue eyes.  Though she knows that Frigga and Loki are not actually related, she can see something of a resemblance in the light behind their eyes.

“That gap, that crack, whatever it is that allows him to project out of the cell.  You left that deliberately open for him to find.”

Frigga sets her goblet down.  “I merely allowed him opportunities, should he seek them.  Doors he could open.”

“More than one?”

“You’re astute.”  Frigga smooths her skirts.  The fabric appears darker here, more emerald than olive.  “Little wonder the spell called to you.”

Darcy chokes inelegantly on her wine.  “Called to me?  Nothing called to me.  I was just the only person idiotic to go down there.”

“There is nothing foolish in compassion, Darcy.  I may call you Darcy?”

Darcy’s throat was dry despite the wine.  _Frigga_ , Queen of Asgard, was asking her permission.  “I’m pretty sure you get to call me anything you want to.”

“I am not Queen here,” Frigga says.  “Here, we are merely two women together.  Equals.”  She looks into the fire for a long moment, absently pinching at the folds of her skirt.  “Part of what I wove into the making of the cell was a calling.  A spell to call the person I needed.  Who my son needs.”

“I’m not-“

“You must not underestimate yourself, Darcy,” Frigga says.  “It was a very specific spell.”

“So it was all just a compulsion?”

Frigga smiles.  “No.  It called you once only.  After that, you were free to make your own decision.  You could have walked away.”

“Oh.”  Darcy wraps her arms around her waist, strokes her fingers against the plush velvet of her gown.  “And the dreams?  Were they part of the spell?”

“The dreams…were not of my creation.  I do now know of their cause.”  Frigga looks at Darcy, her blue eyes piercing.  “You have seen of my son’s origins.  The mistakes that we made.  I would like to add also that I wished to tell him the truth from the beginning.  It was Odin who sought to hide the truth.  He wished Loki to believe himself no different to any others.  The difference was there, anyway.  Loki was always smaller than the others, his talents unlike theirs.”

“His magic.”

Frigga nods.  “He was scarce more than a babe when it manifested.  He had conjured roses growing from the wall of his room, roses with petals like liquid gold.  All because his mother had been sad, and he wished a bouquet to make her smile.”  And Frigga does smile, her eyes soft with memory.  “I began training him then.  Knowing that while I was helping him, I was also hindering him.  Magic is primarily a feminine occupation in Asgard.”

Looking down, Darcy sees that she has been rubbing at the tattoo on her wrist without realising.  She sees, too, that at the edge closest to her fingers, the lines are beginning to darken to black again, raising up like scars against her skin.

Frigga reaches out a hand, waiting for Darcy to nod before she takes Darcy’s hand in hers.  “Loki has sought mostly to use his magic in trickery, or as weaponry in battle.  This is the first time I have seen him create something out of true compassion.”  The green lines grow warm beneath Frigga’s touch, until she reaches the black.  Her fingers still.  “This is a darker magic than any I have known.  Older, perhaps, that even that of Asgard.  Blacker than anything Loki has known, and he has known blackness indeed.  I am surprised that he was able to contain it, strong as his magic is.  He must have been truly motivated.”

Darcy takes her hand back, balls her fists into her stomach.  “Saving his own life is pretty strong motivation.  And before you say it, yes, I know I was stupid for giving away my memories.  I’m just a stupid little girl who had no idea what she was doing, blah blah blah.  Anything you can say I’ve already thought myself.”

Frigga leans back in her seat, hands folded in her lap.  “I would say instead that you are human, Darcy.  It is part of being human - and part of being Asgardian, though you would few who would admit it - to move away from pain.  It is part of what makes your race survive.”  Frigga picks up her wine again, looks into its depths.  “Tell me, if you could, would you take it back?  The memories?  Your pain?”

“If it would accomplish something useful.  It would at least make my pathetic life worth something.”  Darcy surprises herself by her answer.  Surprises herself more with the fact that it is honest.

Frigga taps a finger against her goblet once, twice.  “What would you consider useful?”

“Getting our world back the way it was?  Making Lo-  She bites off the sentence.

Frigga’s eyes flick up, fix on Darcy.  “Say it.  There is no judgement here.  And I will bind you to nothing.”

Darcy closes her eyes, breathes out slowly.  “Making Loki see who he really is.  What he’s really worth.”

Silence stretches out, and Darcy’s heart quickens.  She fears that she has said something wrong, but when she opens her eyes, she sees Frigga smiling at her.

“You have a strong heart, Darcy Lewis.”

Frigga flows to her feet, holds out her hands.  This time, Darcy takes them without hesitation.  There is no tingle of magic between them, just the warmth of Frigga’s fire-warmed skin.  Hard callouses line Frigga’s palms, and Darcy wonders what work she did to develop them.  She’s never thought of a Queen having to use her hands for anything.

“With your permission?” Frigga asks.

Darcy knows she should ask what Frigga is actually asking permission for, but the warmth in the other woman’s eyes is enough to make her nod.

The room around them dissolves into golden light.  The sparks spiral around them, a galaxy of fire, and then circle out again, reforming into another room.

This one is much larger, with a high vaulted ceiling and wooden floor softened by a scattering of intricately patterns rugs in shades of green and gold.  A large fireplace chased with gold is set into one wall, the fire burning within releasing a sweet resinous scent.  Two chairs flank the fireplace, a table between them holding the same two golden goblets.

More chairs, these more plush than the ones by the fireplace, are arranged in a small circle at one end of the room, a low table between them.  The chairs and table are carved from a warm-looking wood that Darcy cannot identify, and they and the fireplace chairs are upholstered in what looks like gold silk.

A long table of the same warm wood is pressed up against one wall, a series of cupboards and drawers beneath.  The surface of the table is empty, though Darcy can see marks here and there that look as though water has been spilt, something burned to ash and scorched the surface.

The walls are deep emerald, undecorated but for a painting above the fireplace.  It is a forest scene, and one that reminds Darcy of Bera, though she recognises nothing in it.  Two doors lead from the room, one at each end.

Frigga allows Darcy time to take the room in, then holds out her hand again.  Darcy takes it, lets Frigga lead her to one of the doors.

Beyond is an antechamber of sorts, the walls the same emerald, the floor covered with the same wooden floorboards.  Two more doors lead off this chamber, but Darcy scarcely notices them, her attention immediately riveted on the window that all but fills one of the walls.

Outside, she can glimpse the edges of golden towers, a sea that appears to flow to nowhere at all.  And beyond them, what looks like deep space, blackness dotted with jewel-like stars and constellations.

“Is that…is this Asgard?” Darcy asks.  She has crossed to the window almost without awareness, and stands with her nose practically pressed against the glass.  No matter how much she contorts herself, she can see little of the city itself.

“It is an image of it,” Frigga says, joining her at the window.  “A dream of it.”

“An illusion?”  Darcy turns reluctantly from the window, takes in the green walls.  “You created this for Loki.”

“It is a replica of his suite in Asgard.”  Frigga points to the two closed doors.  “His library is through that door.  Bedroom, dressing and bathing chambers through there.”

“Library?”  Suddenly Darcy wants nothing more than to know what kinds of books Loki deems important enough to keep in his library.  This thought is followed rapidly by the desire to know what his _bedroom_ looks like.  She feels her cheeks flush.

Frigga holds out her hand again and leads Darcy back into the main chamber.  Darcy allows herself a last longing look at the other doors before she allows herself to be led.  

Frigga doesn’t miss the look.  “Time passes here at the same rate as in Midgard, and there is something else you must see.”

They cross to the other door leading off the main chamber.  Here Frigga pauses, though she keeps her hand still in Darcy’s.  Her fingers tremble now.

“I cannot pass through this door,” Frigga says.  “My presence would not…be welcome.  You may pass through, but know that you cannot be seen or heard right now.”

Frigga presses her hand hard against Darcy’s, then slides her fingers away, moving to stand by the wall next to the door, facing away.  When Darcy grips the door’s handle, that warm tingling she associates with Frigga’s magic moves through her.  She glances over at Frigga.  The other woman is pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nods.  Darcy pulls the door open.

And looks into Loki’s cell.

The door opens onto the slim space between his table and chairs and bathroom corner.  The curtain shielding the bathroom shields Darcy’s view of the cot beyond.  She can see the edge of its shadow, but nothing more.

She notices these things only because she doesn’t want to look at the rest of the cell.  But she cannot look away for long, her eyes drawn inexorably to the floor.

The once-white floor is stained black almost entirely.  Black with blood.  _Darcy’s_ blood.

The blood has dried to a thick, greasy-looking substance, raised in crests and waves here and there.  It looks like a frozen ocean on a moonless, starless night.  Outside the cell, the corridor is similarly stained.

So much black.  So much blood.

Darcy rubs the scars running through her tattoo, wondering that she managed to survive the loss of so much blood.

She looks back over her shoulder.  Frigga has not moved, but her eyes are on Darcy, bright with unshed tears.

“You must…you must see him,” she says, her voice breaking.  “ _See him_ , Darcy.  Please.”

Darcy steps into the cell.  A tingling on the back of her neck, and she turns to see the door closed.  It looks only partially there, like a heat shimmer in the deep desert.  Experimentally, she moves her hand closer to the handle, and the door solidifies.  She lets her hand fall, and the door fades again.

She swallows hard as she turns back to the cell.  It is so _small_ , she hadn’t realised.  How could anyone stand being shut away down here?  Nothing to do, nothing to look at but the white walls, white floor?

Black floor now, she corrects herself, taking another step away from the door.  The blackness yields slightly beneath her weight, and she swears she feels warmth bleeding up through the soles of her slippers.

Another step, and she is in the centre of the cell.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the black at her feet.  She can feel Loki’s presence on the cot, like a weight dragging at her mind.  She feels as though she cannot breathe.

 _See him_.

Frigga’s words echoing in her mind, she turns, and she sees Loki.

He is curled in a foetal position on the cot, his back pressed to the wall.  He holds his knees against his chest so hard that his hands are bloodless and waxen.  His eyes are closed, his forehead creased as though with pain.  He barely appears to be breathing.

Every part of his exposed skin is splashed with black.  His hair is clotted and matted with the stuff.  He is covered with her blood.

Darcy falls to her knees, uncaring of the black beneath her, uncaring of anything but Loki.

A muffled sound comes from the guard room, and Darcy’s head whips around.  The gate is closed, but from beyond she can hear something like scraping.  She focuses only for a moment on trying to identify it, then turns back to Loki.

He is even thinner than the last time she saw him, his eyes bruised and lips chewed bloody.  Darcy reaches out a hand to him, but stops short of touching him.  Her hand trembles as hard as Frigga’s had.  Frigga had said nothing about whether Darcy could touch or be touched, and she could certainly feel the floor beneath her.  She moves her hand forward a half inch.

Static hisses in burst sharp as gunfire as the intercom activates.  Darcy jumps, but Loki doesn’t react.

“You can stop pretending to sleep,” a voice comes over the intercom.  Darcy recognises it immediately: Daniel Blackwood.  “I know that you can hear me, Loki.  And that you can hear what’s happening in the next room.  Bots are down there constructing the first of a series of barriers.  This one is a brick wall.  Next will come solid concrete, then steel, then bricks, then more concrete.  I’m told there will be some Stark tech that will be able to monitor any changes in fields down there, too.  Basically, we’re building you a nice cosy tomb, Loki.  One that we’ll know if you’re trying to project out of.  We’ll be adding some toys to your cell, too.  And I’d just like to add that I’m personally quite interested in seeing how Asgardian biology interacts with some of our poisons.”

Darcy glares at the intercom.  She can hear the satisfaction in Blackwood’s voice.  Can hear him wanting to goad Loki into trying something, trying anything.

She turns back to Loki.  He has not moved, but his eyes are now slitted open.  Even the bright emerald of his eyes seems faded.

“Darcy?” he asks, his voice cracked and weak.  “What happened to Darcy?”

“Ms Lewis?”  There is actual _glee_ in his voice now.  Darcy curls her hands into fists as he continues.  “You did a real number on the poor girl, Loki.  All of that blood everywhere…”  Blackwood laughs, low and nasty.  “Poor girl.  She was so innocent.”

Loki’s eyes open fully.  He stares at the intercom, his gaze going straight through Darcy.  “Was?”

“You killed her, Loki.  She’s dead.”


	21. Frozen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the kudos, comments and subscriptions. You guys make this fun.
> 
> And yes, the feels continue. I blame the Thor 2 behind-the-scenes stuff for at least part of this chapter.

Loki is frozen, barely breathing.  His skin is like marble, his eyes wide.  His pupils are mere pinpricks of black in faded green.

Darcy reaches out a hand to him, wanting to touch him.  Hoping that he will _know_ that she’s there, that she’s alive.  Her fingers pass through his flesh as though she is smoke.  She feels nothing at all.

Warmth spirals around her, draws her back towards the door.  She wants to fight it, wants to stay with Loki, to keep trying to make him feel her presence, but the warmth is stronger.  She is pulled back through the door.  It closes silently behind her.

Darcy wavers on her feet, her muscles aching.  She half falls, but Frigga catches her, leads her over to one of the chairs next to the fire.  A goblet of warm mulled wine is placed in her hands, a thick cloak around her shoulders.  

Darcy’s hands are shaking so badly that the wine spills over the rim of the goblet several times before she manages to lift it to her mouth and take a sip.  The warmth of the wine unfurls within her, and she realises how cold she is.  How cold the cell was.

As she warms, she begins to shiver.  She had been so cold that she’d moved past shivering.

“We can’t leave him like that.”  Darcy’s voice shakes as much as her hands had.  “He has to know that it’s a lie.”

Frigga kneels at her side, smooths back her hair.  Her fingers catch on one of the jewelled combs in Darcy’s hair, and it falls free, tumbling to the floor.  Frigga picks it up, traces the whorls of gold, emeralds and sapphires caught in the curlicues of metal.  The comb is an exact match the ones that Frigga wears in her own hair.

“Did he…were these Loki’s creation?” Frigga asks quietly.

“I think so.  I wore these in one of the dreams with him.”

Frigga’s breath hitches in her throat.  When she looks up at Darcy, her eyes shine.  “The things he said to me the last time, I thought I had lost him altogether.”  She slides the comb back into Darcy’s hair.  “Drink.  It will help the cold.”

Darcy takes another swallow of wine.  The warmth of the fire is beginning to seep into her, though she still feels as though she is frozen, deep down at her core.  If this is how she feels, with wine and cloak and fire, how must Loki feel?  How _cold_ is he?

“I need to go back in there,” Darcy says.  “I need to see him again.  There has to be some way to send my body there properly.”

Frigga shakes her head.  “I would if I could.  You are both being watched too carefully, and if you and Loki are to have a chance at freedom, you must play their game.  For a time.”

“But he’s _suffering_.”

“He has known suffering in his life.  Too much suffering, I do agree.  And there will likely be more, before the end.”  Frigga picks up her own goblet.  Her hands are trembling.   “Your body has been sleeping for almost the full span of the night.  We have perhaps one half of one of your hours before they will be expecting you to wake.”

“The whole night?  But I just fell asleep.”

“You were in the cell for hours, Darcy.”

Darcy takes a gulp of wine.  “Oh.”

Frigga leans forward, places a hand on Darcy’s.  “Loki has strength that not even he is aware of.  He will survive until the next nightfall.”

“What happens then?”

Frigga crosses the room, opens one of the drawers beneath the long bench.  The pouch she removes is small, made from battered leather that had once, perhaps, been sage green.  Now it is worn soft, almost colourless.

“When Loki was young, he was assigned a tutor whom he greatly disliked.”  Frigga takes her seat again, the pouch cradled in her hands.  “Odin insisted that he be made to complete his studies with this tutor, no matter how much Loki complained.  My king claimed it would be good training for a prince.”  A fleeting expression crosses Frigga’s face: sorrow, Darcy thinks, or perhaps regret.  “Loki had other ideas.  He crafted a spell which would allow him to separate himself.  Like his projection, but cannier.  One part would remain behind as a shadow, going through the motions which Loki was expected to.  It was flesh, and could touch and be touched, react as expected.  The greater part of Loki’s consciousness stepped aside from reality.  To others, he was invisible, but he could still interact with solid objects.  Including people.  I suspect that he had not planned the latter, but he certainly used it to his advantage.  Thor experienced more than one strange prank during that tutor’s reign.”

“I could have used that spell during most of high school.”

Frigga laughs, a sound like bells.  “By the time we discovered Loki’s trick, the tutor had finished his work and moved on.  And when Odin questioned him, Loki knew all of the lessons.”  There is pride in Frigga’s voice now.  “You should have heard Thor pester his brother for use of the spell.”

Frigga tips two rings out of the pouch.  They are made from a metal like copper infused with whirls of fire, a dozen thin strands woven together in an intricate pattern.  One of the rings is slightly larger and heavier.

“I used Loki’s spell as the basis for these,” Frigga says.  She runs her thumb over them both before she hands them to Darcy.  “The larger is Loki’s.  The smaller, yours.”

“I’m gonna be able to make myself invisible?”

“The spell on yours will allow you access to these rooms.  They are set slightly apart from your reality, which is what you will be when it is active.  I had some trouble tuning the spell for Midgardian physiology, so I suggest that you only use it at night.  If the shadow you leave behind appears to sleep too heavily, that should be less suspect.”

“And Loki’s?”

“It works in much the same fashion as his spell.  Except he should be able to wear his full time.”

“So his shadow is the one that stays locked up, and he gets to live in these rooms instead.”

Frigga’s lips curve in a smile.  “Exactly.”

“You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?”

“I did not wish to see my son suffer.”

Darcy twirls the rings around on her palm.  “Won’t they notice that we’re suddenly wearing rings?  I’m guessing that someone is watching me pretty closely.”

“The rings are set slightly outside your reality.  They should not register to any electronic device.”

“You thought of everything.”

Frigga inclines her head.  “Loki should confine himself to these rooms for the time being.  I am not certain if anyone will  be able to sense him elsewhere.”

“I can’t imagine that’s going to be a particular hardship.  Especially after months in that cell.”

Frigga flinches visibly. “If I could have spared him a moment of that, I would have.”

It is Darcy’s turn to place her hand on Frigga’s.  “I know.”

Frigga looks at her for a moment, and Darcy wonders just how much gentleness the Queen has known in her life.  Perhaps even less than Loki.

“You should return to your physical body now,” Frigga says.  She draws Darcy to her feet, leads her through the rooms.  “I will show you the way back.”

They walk back through the vaulted room to the antechamber.  This time they turn into the door leading onto the library.  There are dozens and dozens of shelves here, each one stacked with leather-bound volumes.  Darcy immediately wants to stop and browse, but Frigga hurries her onwards.

There is another door on the far side of the library.  They stop there, and Frigga takes Darcy’s hands in her own.  She avoids touching the black parts of Darcy’s tattoo.

“Bring him as soon as you can, but be careful,” Frigga says.  She hesitates, then leans down and kisses Darcy’s forehead.  “You, too, are stronger and braver than you think, Darcy Lewis.  When this is all over, and we have the Bifrost again, I trust that you will come and visit us in Asgard?”

“I don’t know if I’m exactly the kind of person Asgard would welcome.”

“Of course you are.  And I would welcome you.”  Frigga smiles, touches the combs in Darcy’s hair lightly.  “You and Loki both.  Now, I wasn’t able to anchor this exit, because I was not certain of where they would place you physically.  So you must focus when you open the door.  Just visualise the place you need to exit, and it will happen.”

“You’re trusting me with magic?  This…might not end well.”

“I trust you.”

Darcy glances back at the books, allows herself one moment of dreaming about just staying here.  But then she thinks of Loki, and she reaches out to the door.  Closes her hand over the handle.  That tingle of warm magic flows into her fingers.

She thinks of the apartment in Stark Tower, and opens the door, steps through.

And falls a full metre to the ground, landing with a heavy thud.

She glares up at the closing door, which has opened upside-down, its base flush with the ceiling.  “Why does that not surprise me?”

The door closes, then vanishes.  Gold light glimmers on the wall, and then is gone.

Darcy rubs her shoulder and hip, both of which had taken the brunt of her fall.  If she wasn’t holding the two rings still, she would have thought the encounter with Frigga to be no more than a dream.

And then she turns and sees herself asleep on the couch.

She stands up, limps across the room.  The sense of wrongness, of dislocation, is strong.  She finds herself wishing she could touch something, just to assure herself that this is reality, that her mind hasn’t fractured.  Of course, when she tries to touch the arm of the couch, her fingers move straight through it.

Her sleeping body shifts slightly, frowns.  Darcy watches herself breathe, utterly fascinated with the experience of being able to see her body from the outside.  Her face looks oddly wrong; it takes her a moment to realise it’s because she usually only sees herself reflected in a mirror.  And that rarely enough, since New York fell.

She’s thinner than she can ever remember being, her collarbones jutting against her skin, the tendons in her hands taut and visible.  There are deep purple bruises marring the inside of her arms.  More bruises shadow her eyes, and her lips are chapped and bloodless.  If she couldn’t actually see the movement of her chest as she breathes, Darcy would think herself dead.

Her sleeping self shifts again, one hand coming up to rest beside her face.  Even in the dim light of the apartment, the green of the tattoo is vivid.  The places where it has returned to black are utterly without dimension, as though she’s looking through cracks in her skin to an abyss beyond.

Darcy reaches out, and then the world flips, and she’s back inside her body.

She wakes with a start, gasping for air.  Her body feels so _heavy_ , as though there is concrete wrapping her bones instead of muscle and skin.  She is aware of a hundred different aches - the places where her flesh is bruised from IVs, more bruises along her spine and hipbones.  There is a tenderness in her shoulder and hip where her astral self fell out of the door.  So injuries could carry over, then.  She makes a mental note not to go flinging herself over any cliffs while projecting.

The rings are in her hand, solid and real.  She picks up the smallest one, considers it.  She could just slip it on right now and be free.  Just fly up and up, keep going until her body dissolves into light and she never has to worry about anything again.

The metal grows cold against her fingers.  And she thinks of Loki in that room, the look on his face when Blackwood told him she was dead.  She glances up at the security cameras, knows that if she does anything suspicious, Loki will be blamed.  Will be punished.

An alarm chimes, and the curtains in the room slide open on mechanised tracks.  From the other rooms, she can hear the other pairs of curtains opening as well.  Early morning light floods the room, thin and pale.

“So I guess I don’t even get to pick my wake up time?” she asks the security camera.  She wonders who’s watching her.  Blackwood, she guesses.  The Avengers will likely be too busy dealing with whatever Hel is doing to the city.  And Jane will be working, trying to open the wormhole.

Jane.  The memory of the way Jane looked at her hits her like a physical blow, and she curls around her midsection.  For even Jane not to believe in Darcy meant that no one else would.  No one was coming to save her or Loki.  Darcy had to save them both.  Somehow.  She looks at the rings in her hands, hopes that they will give her the answers she needs.

She stands, limps heavily over to the window.  Her view is mostly blocked by other buildings, but she can see a few slivers of the park.  Though the sun is rising, the park itself remains dark, no light penetrating there.  Except in one place, where a slim column of cool white light rises up and up.

Darcy stares at it.  It takes her a full five minutes to parse that what she’s seeing is a _tree_.  It rises higher than the Empire State building, spindy limbs reaching so high that she half fancies that they could brush the sky.

 _Or touch the place where a barrier is preventing Jane’s wormhole from going through_.

She doesn’t need to see the place where the tree is rooted to know that it was the centre of the labyrinth that she walked through.  That the sapling that had remained there afterwards has grown into this tree.  That the tree is still growing.

Darcy shivers, though the apartment is warm enough, and wishes that the curtains would close again.

 

#

 

Darcy has to assume that someone is watching at all times.  The coverage of security cameras is, as best as she can tell, complete.  Including the bathroom, which sports two cameras.  And that only includes the cameras she can see.  Knowing Stark, there are dozens of hundreds more than she can’t see.  And even if there’s no one physically watching, there’s always J.A.R.V.I.S.

She has to act as innocent as possible, give no one opportunity to suspect anything.  Not that there is anything _to_ suspect, she thinks, side eyeing a camera as she walks back down the corridor to the bedroom.  She’s still shivering, and gooseflesh has broken out on her skin, though the apartment seems warm enough.  Maybe it was a side effect of dreaming herself to Frigga, or maybe it’s just a reaction from seeing that tree.

She goes into the wardrobe to fetch clean clothes, takes the opportunity to slip the two rings Frigga had given her into the pocket of a pair of sweatpants.  She sets them and a loose t-shirt aside to wear that night as pyjamas.  She wishes she could just lie down now, go to sleep.  Knows that she can’t.

She grabs clothes at random and goes into the bathroom, where she turns the shower on as hot as she can stand it.  She tries to figure out if there’s any way she can shower or use the toilet without the cameras seeing her.  Even assuming that the visible cameras are the only ones in here, there’s no way she can hide.  

She has a towel balled up, ready to throw at one of the cameras to cover the lens when the first real bout of cold hits.

It’s like a physical blow, like ice actually forming beneath her skin.  Darcy crumples to the ground, curled around the towel she had been preparing.  Her stomach cramps painfully, and she retches, though there’s nothing for her to bring up but sour bile.

And then the bathroom is gone.  

And then _she_ is gone.

Everything is a blur of light and shadow.  Everything is filled with screaming - the twisted, tortured sound of a broken animal in pain screaming and screaming and screaming, the sound welling forth continuously through a throat already shredded and bloody.  There is something beneath her hands, and she tears at it, over and over, the screech of rending metal not nearly enough to contain what she feels-

And just as though a switch has been flipped, the screaming, the pain, the light and shadow, is gone.  And she is just Darcy again, a girl curled around a towel on a bathroom floor, shivering hard.

She doesn’t care about the cameras now as she crawls to the shower, climbs beneath the spray.  Moves only to make the water hotter, uncaring of whether it scalds her skin, whether it melts her flesh from her bones.

She’s shivering so hard that she fears that her joints will dislocate, her tendons tear free.  Even the hottest water doesn’t seem to penetrate the ice that’s formed in her.

Because she knows what that vision was.  It was _Loki_.  Filled with pain, screaming, tearing at his cell.  And so, so _cold_.  So _broken_.

She’s glad now for the shower, because at least whoever is watching - and she is certain now that they have to be watching, with Loki like this - can’t see her tears.

 

#

 

Darcy goes through the motions, knows now how vital it is that she appear normal. 

She washes herself in the shower, shampoos and conditions her hair.  Dries off, dresses.  Spends an inordinate amount of time trying to untangle the knotted strands after she gets out of the shower.  Eventually gives up and just ties the mess back to deal with later.  Considers the cosmetics in the bathroom cabinet, decides that she’s only prepared to go so far.

A rattling in the kitchen draws her out of the bathroom.  She gets there in time to see a bot vanishing into a cupboard.  A brief investigation reveals that the cupboard has a false front, and is actually a hatch for bots to enter and exit the apartment.  It is impossible for her to open.

The tray the bot leaves is identical to the ones she took to Loki.  And like Loki’s latest trays, everything on hers is military rations.  Plastic cutlery, a disposable napkin.  Nothing sharp.  Two white pills rattling in a cup that some has labelled _aspirin_.

“You could give me a bottle of aspirin, you know,” she says to the closest security camera.  “Even I’m not dumb enough to overdose on painkillers.  I like my liver, thank you very much.”

She wants to ignore the aspirin on principle, but there’s a headache beginning to tighten around her skull.  It annoys her that someone knows her body better than she does.  Oddly, that fact rankles even more than the idea of someone seeing her naked in the shower, someone washing and changing her while she was unconscious.

She’s not hungry, but she sits down, makes herself eat the entire tasteless meal.  The memory of seeing herself as thin and pallid as a corpse is too fresh.  And if she somehow manages to find a way out of here, she’s going to need her strength.  

As soon as she’s done, a bot pops out of the access hatch, extends its arms.  She stacks the empty packages onto the tray, sets the lot on its arms.

“Thanks, dude,” she says, giving the bot a little wave. 

The bot beeps in reply, vanishes back through the hatch.

She spends some time going through the cupboards and drawers in the apartment.  She’s seen the stuff in the bathroom - the toiletries and cosmetics.  The wardrobe in the bedroom holds only clothing.  No shoes, but there are a couple of pairs of scuffed slippers.  The kitchen cupboards are mostly empty, only a pair of plastic tumblers in the cupboard above the sink.

“Not even any coffee?  How’s a girl supposed to survive the end of the world without coffee?” she asks the security camera.

She fills one of the tumblers with tepid water, drinks it down.  Drinks another, just for something to do.  At least they’re allowing her to regulate her own water intake, she thinks bitterly, rinsing out the tumbler.

The cold hits her as she’s setting the tumbler in the sink to dry.

It takes everything she has to stop herself from shivering, to smooth her face.  She locks her muscles, then immediately relaxes them again.  She wants to collapse on the floor again, wants to retch up her just-eaten meal.  Knows that she can do neither.

Somehow she manages to get to the library.  To select a book from the shelf, take it to the couch and lie down.

The cold reaches up from deep inside of her.  This time she goes straight past shivering to the dead, empty stillness that follows, precedes death from hypothermia.

There is no screaming.  Just silence, heavy and smothering.  Just wave after wave of pain and cold.

When she comes back to herself, she watches her hands turn the page of the book.  A hundred pages in, and her body has been performing for the cameras.  Some part of her has actually been reading the text, too.  She could even tell the security cameras the name of the heroine’s love, lost years ago at sea.  Could tell the cameras the colours of the first gown the heroine wears.

She silently thanks whatever part of her brain took over, kept up the charade for the cameras.  She’s still cold, but it seems easier to bear this time.  Maybe she’s grown numb enough that it doesn’t hurt.

_But it hurts you, Loki.  Even though it’s a part of you, it hurts you.  You’re letting it hurt you.  On purpose.  Do you want them to kill you?_

She realises then that’s exactly what he wants.

He wants numbness, he wants it all to just stop.  And locked in his cell, there is no other way.

_Just hold on, Loki.  Hold on until tonight.  Please._

She fills the rest of the day.  Reads her book, starts another.  Eats lunch when it comes.  Turns on the television to discover that they’ve only allowed her two channels of streaming movies.  All romantic comedies and fluff.  She picks one at random, stares at the screen.  Eats dinner.  Stares at another movie.

The cold comes two more times.  There is no shivering, just that empty, aching numbness.

Finally, the sun sets.  She’s managed not to look out of the window during the day, but now, she cannot help herself.  The light from the tree seeps into the room, thinner and colder than moonlight.  The tree glows bright, dulling the light of the crescent moon beyond.

She’s grateful when the curtains slide closed, and the light from the tree is blocked out.

In the bathroom, she washes her face.  Attempts again to untangle the snarls from her hair.  Gives up and ties the mess back again.  There are no scissors, otherwise she would have just hacked the whole lot off.

She changes into the sweatpants and shirt she set aside.  Tosses her dirty clothes into the hamper in the bathroom.

Without the overhead lights, only the red LEDs of the security cameras illuminate the room.  It reminds her of being in a darkroom.  She had taken photography in high school, had always found that red light comforting.  It had felt like magic, developing images from nothing.

She curls up beneath the covers, thinking of the girl she had been then.  Magic had been something from a storybook.  Gods only a long-ago tale.

Turning over, she slides a hand into the pocket of her sweatpants, withdraws the rings.  The metal is cold and heavy against her palm.

Her stomach flutters.

She slides the smaller ring onto her left ring finger.  It is the finger Loki scarred with his teeth; it feels fitting to wear the ring there.  The metal strands twist together with a sound like a sigh, grow colder still against her skin.

She closes her fingers over the larger ring.  Closes her eyes.

And-

 

#

 

Darcy stands next to her sleeping self.

This time, she barely glances at her body, just turns and walks through the apartment, hoping like hell that no one can actually tell what’s happening.

The door is there waiting for her.  Upside-down and flush to the ceiling, just as it was that morning.

As she approaches it, the tingling warmth she associates with Frigga’s magic moves through her, and the door swings open.  Beyond, she can see the Asgardian library.  Upside-down, just like the door.

She doesn’t hesitate, just climbs through.  There’s a moment of disorientation, and then she’s standing in the library, her feet on the floor.  She doesn’t wait for the door to close, just runs through the library, the antechamber, into the vaulted room.

It grows colder and colder with every step she takes.  By the time she’s standing at the door leading to Loki’s cell, the air is _freezing_.  She’s gasping for breath, feeling like the air is too thin, lacking in oxygen.  Her breath plumes white before her, and when she touches her fingers to the door, moisture condenses around her skin, turns quickly to frost feathers.

Everything slows, the space between her heartbeats lengthening.  Some distant part of her mind wonders if this is what dying from hypothermia feels like.  If this is how Loki has been feeling all day.

She opens the door.

Snowflakes blow in from the other side, catching on her eyelashes, in her hair.  She is so cold that they do not melt.  There is a taste like pine on the air, but bitter and dark.

The screen that usually hides the bathroom corner has been thrown askew, blocking her view of most of the cell.  There are several long rents in the screen, as though it has been torn by long, sharp claws.

The air is filled with snowflakes, the fall so thick that she can see no more than half a metre in front of her.

The steel sink has been torn from the wall, the broken pipe dripping an inconstant stream of water.  As soon as the water touches the floor, it freezes.  The metal of the sink itself has been twisted, torn.  One edge bears what looks suspiciously like  the impressions of teeth.

She takes a step into the cell, ice crunching beneath her bare feet.  Her soles are instantly numb.

The snow spirals around the cell, revealing fragments of what lies beyond the white:

The perspex barrier is marked by several starburst patterns, as though someone has sought to physically break through it.  Blood streaks down beneath each mark, thick droplets frozen solid.

The wall is scored with what looks like claw marks.

The bed stands on one end, the frame twisted.  The mattress has been torn to shreds.

Darcy moves further into the cell.  Her feet are entirely numb, her hands, too.  There’s no pain, just the odd sensation of living flesh freezing solid.

And then she sees Loki.

He’s curled into the corner of the cell.  His clothing is torn, the exposed flesh bone white.  Blood has frozen on his fingertips, on his lips, is clotted in his tangled hair.  Tears have frozen white on his cheeks, his eyelashes are crusted with snow.

He isn’t moving.  He isn’t breathing.

Darcy falls to her knees beside him, weeps ice.


	22. Kindling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to the people who are subscribing and bookmarking. Thank you also to everyone who comments (I'm going to catch up on replying to comments soon!) and to the people who reblog (especially if you add reaction gifs, which is like my favourite thing in the universe) and like and follow me on tumblr. You guys are all the best.
> 
> Also, I am sorry for the two hideous cliffhangers. There's kind of a cliffhanger again in this chapter, but hopefully it's not as bad. I will tell you this: I could have given you one almost as bad as the last two chapters. I am a mean, mean writer to my characters.

A tiny spark of warmth blooms in the cold white.

Everything is painfully slow, and it takes Darcy a long time to realise that the feeble warmth is emanating from the ring she holds in her hand.  The metal is vibrating rhythmically against her skin.  She opens her fingers, joints creaking, and the larger ring moves, touches the smaller one she wears on her finger.  Metal meets metal with a musical chime.

It is difficult to open her eyes fully, her lashes glued together with ice.  When she’s opened them as much as she is able, half of her lashes remain stuck together.  It is as if she is viewing the cell through bars.

Loki has not moved.

Darcy blinks.  Tiny icicles fall from her lashes, chime against the rings.  They are both warm now, both vibrating against her skin.  The larger one glows with gold light that she recognises as Frigga’s magic.

Is the ring even going to do anything if Loki is dead?  _Can_ Loki die?

It takes all of her effort to co-ordinate her frozen fingers well enough to pick up the ring.  Loki’s hands are curled loosely against his chest, his flesh solid white.  Darcy fumbles, almost drops the ring more than once, but eventually manages to slide it onto Loki’s finger.  She chooses his left ring finger, mirroring the placement of her own ring.

For a long moment, nothing happens.  And then the snow shifts, and there, standing next to the Loki curled in the corner is a second Loki.  His eyes are blank, his face expressionless.  He does nothing, says nothing, just stands there staring at nothing.

Darcy’s joints creak as she pulls herself to her feet.  It feels like it’s the first time she’s actually stood next to Loki, and she is aware immediately of how tall he is.  He doesn’t react to her at all when she approaches, when she places a hand on his arm.

His flesh feels waxen, horribly pliable.  As though he is made from plastic, from rubber.  Lifeless.

“Loki?”  Darcy’s voice is almost complete swallowed by the white hush of the room.  Loki does not react.

She forces down the revulsion she feels, circles his wrist with her fingers.  Tugs softly.  He takes a step in her direction, but otherwise does not react.

_Okay.  If you can follow, I can at least work with that.  Maybe there’s something in those rooms that will snap you out of this._

She doesn’t allow herself to even consider that _this_ might be a permanent state.  Might be what happens when you use this kind of spell on someone who’s already dead.  She just leads the way, and Loki obediently follows.

The warm air of the library hits her like a physical blow, and she is instantly shivering, the blood rushing to her fingers and toes causing painful pins-and-needles.  She ignores both sensations, and turns to help Loki over the threshold, glad that this door, at least, is the right way up.

He steps obediently into the library.  Darcy waits expectantly, but he just continues to stand there, staring at nothing.  Behind him, the snow in the cell parts just long enough for her to glimpse Loki, still curled unmoving in the corner.

Dread curls within her.  Maybe she was too late.  Maybe she was always going to be too late.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.  She certainly wasn’t going to know anything just standing here.

She’s getting warmer, at least, her shivering subsiding.  She reaches past Loki to close the door leading to the cell.  She brushes against his bare skin on the way back.  He’s still cold as ice.

“Maybe you’re just cold,” she says.

His faded eyes stare into nothing.

“Well, at least I can try to get you warm,” Darcy says.  “Frigga mentioned a bathing chamber.  I guess that’s a place to start.”

She leads him through the library and into the antechamber.  Half hoping that the sight of Asgard out of the window would cause a reaction in Loki, but there is nothing, just the staring and the waxy pliability.  Darcy sighs and leads Loki to the far door.

The rooms beyond it are breathtaking.  The bedroom is large, all gilt and shades of emerald and forest green.  The bed is carved from what looks like a single piece of dark wood, the posts covered with cunning reliefs of forest animals and vines.  What actually look like living vines, except picked out in gilt, curl around the top of the bed, blend seamlessly into the walls.  In the corner, living roses grow directly out of one wall.  Darcy blinks away tears at that, remembering what Frigga told her of Loki’s first manifestation of magic.

The bathing chamber opens directly off the bedroom, all black marble and gilt, with a bath large enough that it seems il-fitting for the name.  It’s more of a pool, Darcy thinks.  She could probably actually swim in it if she wanted to.  It’s already filled with steaming water, the scent of herbs rising with the steam.

Loki just stands there.

Darcy sighs.  “Being your damn handmaiden wasn’t a part of this deal,” she says.  She starts pulling his shirt over his head, but the fabric just tears apart, falling into a handful of rotten rags to the floor.

Darcy stares at his naked torso.  Loki is slender, but he is definitely anything but skinny.  His shoulders are wider than she thought, and finely muscled.  She suspects that he is far stronger than he looks.

She blinks, realising that she’s staring at him and not actually doing anything about getting him warm.  She looks down at his ragged trousers, decides that he can probably deal with being in the bath with them on.  Takes his hand and leads him up the steps to the bath.

Steam bathes her skin, bringing on a fresh bout of shivering that makes her realise how cold she still in.  She grits her teeth, promising herself a change of clothes and some time before the fire later.  Right now, she’s not the one who’s catatonic and-

“Not dying,” she says, giving Loki a gentle push to step into the bath.  “You are _not_ dying, okay?  Just get warm, and everything will be okay.  I’m not going through all of this for nothing.”

Loki obediently steps into the water.  And stands there, ankle-deep.

“God, do I have to do everything for you?  You’re worse than a puppy.”

Darcy steps into the water.  The warmth against her skin is glorious, and she has to actively fight the urge not to just sink down into the bath herself.  

The bottom of the bath is constructed of something that looks like black marble, but it grips her bare feet, preventing slipping.  It slopes down towards one end; that end holds a ledge that looks like it’s about waist-deep.  Darcy can’t help herself from imagining how Loki used that ledge in his real rooms in Asgard.

She shakes her head, forces herself to the task at hand.  If Loki is a puppy, he’s an obedient one, at least.  She grasps his wrists and pulls him across the bath.  She’s glad for the gripping property of the bottom of the bath, because she’s pretty sure Loki would have slipped and fallen at least a half dozen times by the time she manages to get him to the deepest side.  Again, he stands there, looking blankly at nothing.  

“You’re damn lucky I don’t have my taser,” she says, pushing gently down on his shoulders to get him to seat himself on the ledge.

He sits down, just folding his body.  He ends up with the water halfway between his waist and shoulders, his knees sticking up at awkward angles.  Darcy sighs, grasps his ankles and stretches out his legs.

Even in the hot water he’s ice cold, his muscles hard as marble.  Darcy wonders if any blood is getting to his feet and hands at all.  She starts rubbing the muscles of his calves, pushing her knuckles in as hard as she dares, trying to stimulate some circulation.  She moves onto his arms, rubs until they seem at least a little less white.

When her own muscles are exhausted, she sits back on her heels.  The water laps at her shoulders, and she realises that she’s sitting fully clothed in the bath.  Wearing the sweatpants and t-shirt she wore to bed in her apartment in Stark Tower.

It occurs to her for the first time to wonder how Frigga’s magic works here.  When she’d met Frigga in the dream, she had been able to change her clothes just by thought.  She focuses, but nothing happens.  

She sighs, wishing she had more time to figure out how anything works here.  Five minutes of a crash course in magical rings was not going to cut it for any of this.

She shakes herself.  At least she can get out of the bath, get dry.  Hope that there are some dry clothes around here for her to change into. 

She starts to stand up, and something grasps her wrist, pulls her back down.

She stares at Loki’s fingers around her wrist.  Beneath the water, his skin holds a strangely pearlescent hue, somewhere between white and blue, and some trick of the light makes his nails appear almost black.  

He is looking at her.  The skin of his face is that same caught-between-blue-and-white.  His eyes have returned to their normal green, but flickers of red come and go in their depths.  

“Um.  Hi?” Darcy asks.

He blinks slowly, once.  Twice.  The blue ripples and fades away.  His skin is still unhealthily pale, his cheeks gaunt and eyes shadowed, but he looks alive, at least.

Loki opens his mouth, his eyes searching her face.  He closes his mouth again, his eyebrows drawing together, a crease forming between them.

Darcy doesn’t know what she expects.  For him to hit her?  Yell at her?  Thrust her away?  Drown her?

She does _not_ expect his free hand to come up, his fingers to trace the line of her cheekbone.  His fingers are shaking, his skin still cool, despite the heat of the water.

His eyes move over her face again, lingering on her lips, then her eyes.  Then his hands go to her waist, and he pulls her in against him, legs and arms wrapping around her.  He presses his face into the junction of her neck and shoulder, shuddering convulsively.  There is dampness against her skin, and she knows that he is weeping.

Darcy stiffens instinctively, and he loosens his grip, just a fraction.  Enough for her to relax.  It’s been so damn long since she’s been held by anyone.  And she relaxes into his embrace, her arms coming around him.  She can feel the beating of his heart, reassuringly steady.

Loki inhales slowly, exhales, his breath warm against her skin.  When he speaks, his voice is almost inaudible.  “Please, please, please, whatever I have done in my wretched life, let me not wake up.  Do what you want, but just let me have this dream.”

Darcy pulls away from him, just enough so she can see his face.  His hands tighten at her waist, a look of panic crossing his face.

“Please don’t go again.”  His voice is soft, and there is none of the tightness she is used to seeing in his expression.  As though the mask of ice he wears as armour against the world has melted.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Darcy says.  She pushes back a lock of hair from his face.  It is tangled, still matted with black blood.  Her blood.  “Not if you don’t want me to.  But Loki, this isn’t a dream.”

He closes his eyes, turns his face to press his cheek against her palm.  “Say it again?”

“Um.  This isn’t a dream?”

His eyes open, fix on hers.  “No.  Say my name.”

Something cracks open in Darcy.  “Loki.”

He smiles that wide, open smile of his, his hands sliding slowly up her ribs.  One hand comes to rest, open-palmed, between her shoulder blades, while his other hand curls around the back of her neck.  His fingers brush against her pulse, and she feels it quicken.

Everything else fades away, and there is only this: Loki’s hands on her body, his eyes burning into hers.  And when he pulls her down to him, she folds easily, moving so she straddles him.  His hands are loose enough on her that she could easily break away, easily move away from him.  He makes no other move, just looks up at her, his breath shuddering in and out, in and out.

Darcy sees everything in his eyes.  The boy who hid in shadows, who never quite fit in and never understood why.  The boy who enchanted roses for his mother.  The boy who was taught to hate everything he was, who just wanted someone to accept _him_.

She lowers herself down, resting her weight on the long muscles of his thighs.  Presses her lips to his in an almost chaste kiss.  Loki makes a soft sound deep in his throat, and his hands tighten around her, pulling her closer, her breasts crushed against his chest.  The hand between her shoulder blades moves down to her hip, pulling her flush against him.  He is already hard, and she can’t stop herself from rocking against him.  Loki makes a sound caught between a growl and a moan, slants his mouth against hers, his lips parting, tongue delving between her lips.

Loki’s hands move back to Darcy’s waist, his fingers sliding beneath her shirt.  His hands follow the same path up her ribs, except this time he gathers her shirt as he goes.  Darcy pulls back from his kiss to lift her arms and allow him to pull the sodden garment away.  He keeps his eyes on hers as he tosses it away, then returns his hands to her waist again.  She shudders as he trails his fingers up over her stomach, up to her ribs.  His thumb circle the sensitive skin beneath her breasts, and she gasps, bites her lower lip.  Loki grins, pulls her down into another kiss, her bare chest pressing against his.

For a long time, all they do is kiss, Loki’s hands sweeping over her back, curving down over her hips, pulling her closer, though she is already as close to him as she can get.  His kisses grow less controlled, and she rocks helplessly against him, completely lost.  When he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes are heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide.

He trails his hand down over her face, thumb following the curve of her lower lip.  He pauses there only a moment, before he traces his hand down over the pulse in her neck, over the curve of her collarbone, and, finally, down to her breast.  His other hand comes up, his fingers stroking at the soft outer curves of her breasts, thumbs circling at the lower curve.  He grins once, wickedly, then his thumbs brush lightly over her nipples.  Untouched, they have become so sensitised that even that slight touch draws a gasp from Darcy’s lips, her body swaying towards him.

Loki chuckles, then leans in again to kiss the corner of her mouth.  His lips move lower, trailing kisses down her jawline, down her throat.  He licks lightly at the place just above her pulse, nips her skin.  She moans, rocks harder against him, drawing a hiss from him.  She feels his lips curve against her skin, and then he dips his head, takes a nipple in his mouth.

Darcy bends her back, Loki’s hands moving to the small of her back to support her.  He takes his time exploring her breasts, kissing and licking and biting.  Darcy’s blood is rushing in her ears, and she’s barely aware of him moving her so her weight is supported fully on her knees, his hands dextrously removing the rest of her clothing, tearing away what remains of his.

“Darcy.”

She opens her eyes.  They are both naked, Loki’s hands on her hips.  He’s managed to arrange her so she is still straddling him, but apart from his hands on her, they are not touching.  Her breath is coming fast; his, too.

There is that lost look in his eyes again.  Something dark, something almost like fear.

“Loki.”  She breathes his name.  An invocation, a prayer.

“Do you…do you want…this?” he asks, his voice uncertain.  “Me?”

His uncertainty shakes her to the core.  Loki has always seemed to self-possessed, so certain of everything.  Seeing him like this pierces her deeply.

“I’m going to give you several answers to that question,” she says.

He frowns, eyebrows drawing together.  “I don’t-“

She silences whatever he had been about to say with a kiss, pouring everything into it, but being careful to keep her body poised above his, not touching.  The water stirs around her as he shifts his hips, and it takes all of her self control not to just sink down onto him then and there.

Darcy breaks the kiss, draws back again.  Her own pulse is hammering, and she knows that she’s not going to be able to keep hold of her own control for much longer.

“That would be a yes,” she says.  She grasps one of his hands, her thigh muscles trembling as she guides his fingers between her legs, towards her slickness.  She bites back a moan as he slides his fingers over her, but pulls away just before he can push a finger inside.

Something like hurt crosses his face, and she leans in, kisses the place between his eyebrows where creases form when he frowns.  Kisses his lips.  Smiles, reaches down below the water and finds him, hard and ready.

“That would also be a yes,” she says, sliding her fingers slowly over him once, brushing over the head of him.

He gasps, and his fingers close hard over her hips.

Something else occurs to her, then.  She thinks of Yrsa, of Bera.  “Do _you_ want this?” she asks.  “Do you want me?”

His eyes burn into hers for a moment, and then his fingers tighten again, pull her close.  He is stronger than he looks, much stronger than she thought he’d be.  He lines himself up, his fingers sliding, just for a heartbeat, over her clit, and then he pulls her down, sinks inside her.

“That would be a yes,” he says with that wicked grin.

He starts moving, then, and any thought of replying goes out of her mind.  There is only Loki: his hands on her back, her breasts, her hips.  His length deep inside her, each thrust of his hips a little less finessed, a little more urgent.  He keeps his eyes on hers as he moves beneath her, each undulation of his hips thrusting her closer to the precipice.

There is an intimacy to this that Darcy has never experienced before, as though he’s seeing into her very soul and heart as he moves inside of her.  A tear spills from her eye, and she realises that he, too, is weeping.  When he kisses her, she tastes salt, and she doesn’t know if it’s her tears or his.

She feels her climax building, closes her eyes.  Loki’s hand comes up, cups her cheek.

“Look at me,” he says. “Darcy.”

She opens her eyes, presses her forehead to his.  “Loki.”

His pupils dilate, black drowning the emerald.  It takes only one more thrust and she is gone, over the edge.  One more, and his muscles tighten as he spills inside her.  Their moans mingle, echo around the marble chamber.

Darcy’s body is heavy against Loki; he leans back, wraps his arms tight around her, buries her face in her neck.  He makes no move to withdraw from her.

Finally, cramped muscles force Darcy to pull away from Loki.  As she moves to sit beside him on the ledge, that look of panic crosses his face again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, lacing her fingers with his.  “My muscles…ow?”  She laughs, unable to state anything clearer than that.  “I think you kind of broke my brain.”

Loki’s grin blossoms again - and _God_ , she is never going to get tired of that smile - and he dances his fingers along the edge of the bath.  A slab of marble moves aside, revealing a chamber below filled with coloured glass bottles.

“Slick,” Darcy says, aware that she’s grinning a pretty foolish grin herself.

Loki pours a thick, amber-coloured oil into his palm, and proceeds to give Darcy one of the most heavenly massages she’s ever received.  His long fingers are deft as they move over her shoulders, knead the muscles of her hips.  He finds knots that she isn’t even aware of, and eases them one by one.  By the time he’s finished, she feels boneless, utterly relaxed.  Another bottle produces a pale green oil with a vaguely minty scent, which Loki works through Darcy’s hair, massaging her scalp as he works the oil through the tangled length.  Knots unwind like magic, even the horribly matted parts she’d feared she would have to cut off.

She lets her hands float on the surface of the water as Loki works out the last of the tangles in her hair.  The metal of the ring Frigga gave her catches the light.  It doesn’t even feel like she’s a projection; she feels completely here, real and solid.

When Loki finishes, she turns to him, smiling.  “Your turn.”

There’s a wariness in his eyes as she pours some of the amber oil into her palm.  There’s an earthy scent to it, something deep and musky that she hadn’t noticed when Loki was using it on her skin.  She sets the bottle back on the edge of the bath.  Loki watches her movements, his muscles tensing, hands moving before him in a blocking stance.

Darcy hesitates.  “Are you…I don’t have to…”

Loki looks down at his hands, and his eyes widen slightly.  Darcy guesses that he hadn’t even been aware of the tension, that the shift in posture was an involuntary action.  It feels like someone is squeezing her heart as she wonders how long it’s been since someone - since _anyone_ \- has touched him in affection.

Loki lowers his hands slightly, and Darcy reaches out, slides her hand beneath his.  She keeps her eyes on his face, watching closely.  A muscle in his jaw tightens, releases, and then his hand relaxes in hers.  She decides to attempt something non-threatening - at least she _hopes_ it is - because who knows what the hell has happened to Loki in his long lifetime?

She begins massaging the oil into his palm, turning his hand over and tracing the lines there, working her fingers into the band of muscle below his thumb.  His fingers are long and agile, and she feels heat gather deep in her belly as she remembers the feel of them against her body.  She forces herself to concentrate, working her fingers into the spaces between his, moving onto his arm.  Loki’s eyes are heavily lidded now as he watches her movements, and when she glances below the water, she sees that he is growing hard again.  She deliberately averts her gaze, works her way slowly up one arm, then moves to his other hand and arm.  She moves behind him to work her fingers into his shoulders and neck, run her knuckles down the long muscles alongside his spine.  Beneath the oil, his pale skin grows soft, an intoxicating contrast to the defined muscles beneath.  There is little softness to him,  and there are dozens of scars, most of them faded to white.  Occasionally, he flinches when her fingers find a scar, and she eases back, working her way slowly into the muscles knotted beneath the scarred flesh.

The hair oil comes next, and Darcy takes her time working it through Loki’s hair.  His is even more tangled than hers had been, matted still with black blood.  It dissolves easily in the oil, the scent of copper thankfully drowned by the mint.  When she is done, Loki’s hair hangs in ringlets, the ends ragged and reaching several inches below his shoulders.

Darcy slides her arms around Loki, splays her hands over his chest, just needing to _touch_ him.  Loki presses a hand against hers, then reaches out to some hidden control.  A waterfall springs into life on the opposite side of the pool, the water apparently spilling from the air a metre or so above the edge.

“Now that is a neat trick,” Darcy says.

Loki presses his hands against hers, laces his fingers with hers and lifts their entwined hands.  He presses a gentle kiss to her knuckle.  “Let me show you another one.”

He moves with battle-trained speed, turning around, his hands closing around her waist, fingers sliding over the oil on her skin.  Darcy arches towards him, but he chuckles, holds her a bare inch away from him.

He steers her back through the bath until they are both standing before the waterfall.  The contours of the bath itself have changed, too, the water deeper here than it was before.  Darcy only barely notices, because Loki is lifting her, her oil-slicked skin sliding against his, and incredibly arousing sensation.  As his mouth finds hers, his hands move, one supporting her weight from beneath her thighs, the other sliding between her legs, sliding inside her.  His fingers thrust once, twice, and he moans into her mouth as her hips jerk.  He lifts her with both hands, then lowers her onto him.  It is Darcy’s turn to moan as he holds her weight without apparent effort, his hands raising and lowering her in an easy rhythm.  She clutches onto his shoulders, tangles her fingers into his hair.  It doesn’t take long before she’s falling apart again, everything fading to white as Loki spends himself within her.

When she comes back to herself, Loki is still holding her, her cheek resting against her shoulder.  He looks down at her, and a mischievous spark comes into his eyes.  Darcy has only a second to wonder at the expression before he dunks them both beneath the waterfall.  The water is _cold_ , a shock after the heat of the bath, and Darcy shrieks, tries to wriggle away.  Loki holds her firm, laughing as she tries to escape from the cold.  After a moment, the water grows warmer, and she realises that it’s washing away the oil from their skin and hair.

When he releases her, she promptly mock punches his shoulder.  “You could have warned me.”

“Where would the fun be in that?” he asks, kissing the tip of her nose.

He carries her out of the bath, produces emerald green towels from another hidden compartment.  He dries her off, then she returns the favour.  By the time she’s done, her eyelids are heavy, and she doesn’t protest when Loki lifts her up and carries her to the bed.

She asleep even before he lays her down.

 

#

 

Darcy wakes to warmth.

She’s aware first of the light blanket covering her, the smoothness of silk beneath her cheek.  Next comes the awareness of warm skin against hers: a body curved behind her, a hand pressed protectively against the soft swell of her stomach.

There’s a long time where she doesn’t remember anything - doesn’t _want_ to remember anything - just lies there utterly relaxed, lost in the warmth suffusing her body.

And then she opens her eyes.  Her hand is on the pillow before her face, the tattoo etched there the same colour as the green silk she lies on.  Except for the edge nearest her fingers, which is that deep, dark black, raised like a scar against her skin. 

And everything rushes back to her.  The apartment in Stark Tower.  Hel, and the labyrinth.  Frigga and her magic rings.  Loki, frozen in his cell.

 _Loki_.  Bathing with Loki, his hands on her, his hardness inside her.  Loki, sleeping curled around her, his arm holding her tight against his body.

Loki murmurs as she turns to face him.  He’s still asleep, his lips curved into a smile.  Asleep, and relaxed, he looks young.  His features are fine-boned, but strong, his lashes and eyebrows dark against the paleness of his skin.  His hair had dried into a tangle of curls spilling over his pillow.

In the dreams they had shared, using Yrsa’s eyes, then Bera’s, Darcy had thought him beautiful.  Here, looking at him with her own eyes, she is struck by his beauty all over again.  He is utterly like anyone she has ever known, and she can easily see why someone would worship him as a God.

She bites her lip, then twitches the blanket off him, revealing his body.  He is sleeping so heavily that he doesn’t even move as she sweeps a hand along the elegant length of his back, the long muscles of his flank.  She presses a kiss to his hipbone, tasting salt on his skin.  A soft sound makes her look up.  Loki’s eyes are open, watching her.

Darcy feels her cheeks grow warm.  “Hi.”

“Still dreaming,” he murmurs.  He reaches for her, pulling her down onto the bed again, curling up on his side beside her.  He slides a leg over her thighs, presses his cheek to the upper swell of her breasts, makes a contended noise.  “Still dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming.”  Darcy smooths an errant curl back from his face.  The oil has left it incredibly soft, and she takes a moment to twirl the lock around her finger before she pushes it back behind his ear.  “This is real.  I think.  I didn’t exactly get the chance to ask a lot of-“  She freezes suddenly as it dawns on her that she’s been sleeping here for who knows how long.  There’s nothing in the room that looks anything like a clock, and the light hasn’t changed.  It might have been five minutes.  It might have been five days.  “Shit.  Shit, shit, _shit_!”

Loki reacts as soon as she stiffens, drawing away from her, his own muscles tensing, hands up in that defensive pose again.

“No, no,” Darcy says.  She reaches for him, but he pulls away before she can touch him.  “I just have to..”

She is off the bed and running through the rooms, Loki following more slowly.

The door leading to her apartment in Stark Tower is open.  The curtains in the apartment are drawn aside, the light entering thin enough that it could be mid-morning or mid-afternoon.  She can just see the kitchen.  Two trays sit on the counter, untouched.

Her body has been “sleeping” for the span of a night and at least half a day.

“Maybe they weren’t watching,” she says.  “Maybe they just think I’m really, really tired.”

As she turns to Loki, she hears J.A.R.V.I.S speaking in the apartment, calling her name.

“Maybe not,” Darcy says.

Loki is standing just out of reach.  His face is closed entirely, his eyes smooth as glass.

“I have to go,” Darcy says.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.  Tonight, if they’re not too suspicious.”

Loki says nothing.

Darcy takes a step towards him, even as she hears her name being called again.  And worse, the sound of someone working at the locks of the steel-lined door.  Loki moves smoothly away, staying out of reach, and physical pain contracts in her chest.

“Loki, _I will be back._   I promise.  Just stay here.  Don’t go back into the cell, and don’t take off the ring.”

He looks sharply down at his name, eyes narrowing.  His eyes slide to the matching ring on her hand, and his lips press into a thin line.

“Just trust me, okay?” Darcy asks.  “I will be back tonight if I can, tomorrow at the latest.  As soon as I can.  Okay?  Please?”

The door is opening in the apartment, and she knows she can’t linger any longer.  She flings herself through the door, that sickening sensation of gravity shifting surrounding her.  She allows herself only one glance behind, seeing Loki still standing there, expressionless, before she runs back to her body.


	23. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who comments here and over at Tumblr. You guys are awesome!
> 
> We're entering into what is probably the final third of this fic. There are going to be many, many feels. Prepare your hearts.

Darcy flings her projection towards her sleeping body.  She gets a glimpse only of her self - blankets and sheets pushed back from the right side of the bed, though she cannot remember doing that before slipping on the ring, her tattooed hand outflung against the sheets, caught in a shadow - before she thuds back into it.

There is an instant of darkness in which all she can see is Loki, the way he had looked as she dashed from his rooms without explanation.  The way he had closed up, locked himself away behind that cold mask.  What is he thinking?  That he’s been abandoned again?

Everything feels instantly slow and heavy.  Her skin is entirely numb, her joints locked in place, muscles frozen hard as concrete.  Her heart beats frantically in her ears, the sound as deafening as thunder.  Even her eyes are wrong, too dry to focus.  She blinks as much as her muscles allow, trying to work up enough tears to clear her vision.  She feels as exhausted as though she’s had the flu for months.

Slowly her hearing adjusts, the sound of her heartbeat fading into the background, external sounds swimming in one by one.  J.A.R.V.I.S. calls her name once more, then falls silent.  From across the apartment, someone bangs at the steel-lined door, yelling something incoherent.  Darcy can hear enough to know that they sound pissed.

The access chute in the kitchen rattles, and the sound of a bot wheeling through the apartment comes to her.  Darcy’s neck has loosened enough for her to be able to turn her head enough to see it enter the room, move next to the bed.  It is a different bot to the other ones she has seen in Stark Tower.  Taller, more angular.  More threatening.

It also holds a fat syringe gripped in a pincer arm.

The door swings open fully with a creak.  Air hisses out of the apartment, as though the rooms are exhaling.  The sound of heavy footsteps, and Darcy remembers the ring just in time.  She removes it with her thumb and slides it into the pocket of her sweatpants, thankful that her muscles have loosened up enough for the movement.  Remembering the security cameras and watching bot, she makes a show of scratching at her thigh beneath the blankets.

That small movement is enough to set her heart racing, her breath heaving in and out of her chest.  It feels as though she’s run a marathon.  What the hell is wrong with her?  Is it just the effects of the magic ring?

She lets her head fall back to the pillow.  Her neck muscles twitch, and her head shifts to the side in an involuntary movement, bringing her other hand into her field of vision.

She blinks, trying to make sense of the shadow that surrounds her hand.

It takes a long moment to realise that it isn’t a shadow.  It’s a bloodstain.  A black bloodstain.

Her stomach does a slow flip.  When she’d last set eyes upon the tattoo, there had been perhaps a few millimetres that had reverted to black.  Now, more than a centimetre of the curlicued design is black and raised.   More, the parts of the claw marks from Hel that the newly-black tattoo surrounds have opened up again.  Black blood has oozed out - _is_ still oozing out, thick as oil - and formed a wide puddle on the bed beneath her.  Now she’s aware of it, she can feel it too, sticky and cold against the skin of her arm and back.

Three people enter the room.  All are dressed in yellow biohazard suits, what she assumes are tubes for their air trailing behind them and out of the door.

“Last time I checked, we weren’t in _Outbreak_?” Darcy asks.  Her voice is weak, half a whisper.  “Which, by the way, was a supremely stupid movie.  Making a vaccine in a day?  I don’t think so.”

The biohazard suits don’t say anything, the only sound the hissing of their breathing.  Their face plates are mirrored on the outside, so she can’t see who’s inside the suits.  

The one standing closest to her - though not actually close enough that she could touch the suit - turns to the others, says something.  She presumes they have some kind of intercoms between the suits, because she can’t hear anything but a muffled muttering.  The person behind them muttered back.

Darcy lets her head fall back onto the pillow, stares at the ceiling.  She can feel the blood seeping out of her now, drop by thick drop.  It turns her stomach, and she finds herself rubbing her scarred left finger, where Loki had removed the poison.  Was it rising in her again?

A hiss as the closest suited figure activates the external speaker on its suit.  “We have a biohazard situation,” it says.  The voice is male, flat and without accent.  “I am Doctor Glenn.  We need to take some samples.”

The second figure touches a gloves hand to its belt.  A small clear pouch hangs there, tubes and needles in slots and pockets.

“Samples?  From what?  From me?”  Darcy lifts herself up as much as she is able, her muscles trembling.  “Wait, _I’m_ the biohazard?”

“There are…events happening in the city,” Dr Glenn says.  “We believe they may be connected to this.”  He waves a hand at Darcy’s hand.

“You think it’s a _plague_?”  Darcy manages to heave herself up into a seated position.  She presses a corner of the ruined sheet against her hand, unable to stand feeling the dripping blood any longer.  “Have any of you noticed a really creepy tree growing in the middle of Central Park?  I don’t think a _biohazard_ can cause that.”

She knows that Dr Glenn is smiling a practiced I’ve-consoled-crazier-patients-than-you smile when he answers.  “We have our orders, Ms Lewis.  Now, we need to take some precautions.  It shouldn’t hurt.”

Too late she remembers the bot on the other side of the bed.  It jabs the syringe into the side of her thigh, just below where the ring is stashed.  The thick needle penetrates the cloth of her sweatpants as well as her skin.  She swears she even feels it scrape bone.  Then the drug is coursing through her veins.  There’s a moment where she just feels sleepy, and then, abruptly, she loses all feeling and muscle control beneath her neck.  She collapses hard on the bed, the breath going out of her.  Panic rises as she tries to get her breath again.

“Just calm down, Ms Lewis,” Dr Glen says.  “If you remain calm, you will be able to breathe.  The drug is perfectly calibrated to paralyse muscles except those needed for your heart and lungs.”

Darcy can do nothing, just lies there staring at the ceiling as the second figure does its work.  It says nothing to her, but mutters to Dr Glen occasionally as it moves around the bed.  Darcy feels nothing, just catches the occasional flash of glass or metal, sees the suited figure raise a vial of black blood.  She only realises that feeling is beginning to return to her skin when she feels a bandage being wrapped around her hand.

Dr Glen returns to the side of the bed.  “The effects of the drug will wear off within a half hour or so.  I suggest you clean up first - we’ve supplied you with some gloves to wear over the bandages in the shower.  Bots will be sent in to take care of the sheets and bed for you.  Change the bandages as often as you need to.  There are supplies, and a biohazard bin and instructions in the bathroom also.”

He and the second figure move out of Darcy’s field of view.  For a moment, she thinks they have all gone, and then the third figure moves close.  Closer to the bed than the others, gloved hand lightly touching Darcy’s fingers.

“Darce?”

It takes Darcy a moment to recognise Jane’s voice, distorted by the speaker.

“I had to beg for them to let me come in here,” Jane says.  “When J.A.R.V.I.S. reported your condition, I thought…”  Jane’s voice trails off into static.  “They’ve evacuated this floor, and the ones above and below, turned them into a sealed biohazard zone.”  Again, static rises.  “I’m sorry, Darcy.  I was scared.  I was angry.  I was so close to getting Thor back, and then all of this happened.  I still don’t know why they sent Loki here, not when Thor should have…”

Jane’s fingers curl around Darcy’s, squeeze lightly.  She hesitates, then raises her other hand to her belt, presses a button on a small device clipped there.  A sibilant hissing rises, undulating softly around the room. “I only have a few minutes before the surveillance going out registers as more than just a dysfunction.  Things are bad, Darce.  I don’t even know what’s happening.  We’re on lockdown, mostly confined to our apartments or labs, and no one’s communicating well.  There’s a girl from the city who keeps coming here, asking the guards to talk to you.  The first few times, she had a baby with her.  I only saw her by accident, and she had the baby wrapped up in that ugly green sweater of yours.  You know, the one with the tassels?  I managed to get one of the guards to take a message from her.  She said that things are falling apart at Utopia.  That Vinh was badly ill.”

The hissing rises in tone, then fades out.  Jane immediately stands back, her hand slipping from Darcy’s.

“You have to comply with everything they ask, Darcy,” she says, her voice crisp and professional.  “We need to figure this out, we need to contain this infection, and figure out what’s blocking the wormhole.  They’ll come for samples and tests every morning after breakfast.  If you comply, they won’t use the paralytic or restraints again.”

Darcy only half hears what Jane is saying now.  Tears well in her eyes at the thought of what could be happening out in the city.  Beth and Ravi, everyone at Utopia.  Vinh.  The tears keep welling, spilling down the sides of her face, and she cannot stop them, cannot blink them away.

 

#

 

As promised by Dr Glenn, the paralytic wears off completely within the hour.  Darcy rises shakily from the bed, flakes of dried black blood falling like corrupted snow from her skin.  The bandage the doctor wrapped around her wrist is already soaking through.

As soon as her feet are on the floor, bots are spilling into the room.  One begins to remove the stained bedding, while another one follows her, wiping up the flaking blood from the floor.

Her bathroom looks more like a lab now.  A fat yellow biohazard bin sits in one corner, with instructions for its use taped on the wall above.  Most of the cosmetics and toiletries have been removed, replaced by rows of sanitizer, bandages, saline and ointments.  More instructions on the care of her wound have been hastily penned and pasted onto the wall below.

Darcy turns on the shower, doesn’t wait for the water to heat before she sinks down onto the shower floor, letting the water cascade over her.  As it wets her hair, the scent of mint rises from the strands.  The time spent with Loki feels like a dream now, nothing real.  She slides her hand into the pocket of her sweatpants, rolls the ring between her fingers.  If not for that, she _would_ think it to have been a dream.

The water grows warmer, and she stands up.  She feels weak, but her legs hold her well enough.  The shampoo and soap in the shower have been replaced by chemical-scented versions laced with antivirals and antifungals and anti-God knows what.  She strips off her sodden clothes, carefully placing the ring on the floor near them, and washes away the blood.

She towels off, disposes of her clothing and the bandage in the biohazard bin, bagging everything individually as per the instructions.  Rebandages her wrist, wraps herself in a towel.  Ring curled against her palm, she goes in search of fresh clothing.

The bots have already finished their work.  The bed and mattress are gone, replaced by a hospital bed covered with a rubber protector, slick white sheets and blankets.  An I.V. pole stands empty next to the bed, monitoring equipment pushed up against the nearby wall.  Darcy looks at the setup for a moment, then turns to the wardrobe.

All of the clothing that was there has been removed, replaced by white scrubs and a row of white flannel robes and slippers.

“Well, I guess I’m not going to be attending any parties from now on, then?” Darcy asks the security camera.  “No royal galas for me in my slippers.”

She dresses, pulls on a robe over the scrubs.  The robes, thankfully, have pockets, and she slides the ring deep into one.

Bots are at work in the bathroom as she passes, scrubbing and disinfecting.  She ignored them and goes through into the kitchen, where her breakfast and lunch trays both wait.  The thought of eating the rations turns her stomach, even as it contracts with hunger.  She eats, and tastes nothing.

As she finishes, a bot rattles out of the access chute with her dinner tray.   Darcy laughs as the bot sets it on the counter before her.  At least it means that there’s only a handful of hours before night falls.  She leaves the tray, goes into the living room and turns on the television, picking a channel at random.

She stares at the screen, aware the whole time of the glowing tree in her peripheral vision on one side, the blank wall where the door to Loki’s rooms is hidden on the other side.

 

#

 

When the curtains finally draw closed, Darcy is still sitting on the couch, still staring at the television.  She can’t tell if it’s the same movie she’s watching or a different one.  They both feature cute blonde girls, brooding unattainable men and scenes of crying in airports.

When she stands up, the room spins around her, forcing her to lean on the couch trying to catch her breath.  She wonders if they should have given her another blood transfusion.  She wonders if she has any actual blood in her, or just the black ooze.  The bandage is beginning to soak through, and she can smell the black blood now, fetid and rotting.

She makes her way to the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall the whole way, stopping to rest twice.  She spends some time reading through all the instructions she’s been given, as much as for the chance to rest as to actually know the procedures.  The rest is automatic: wash her face, comb her hair, brush her teeth.  Remove the sodden bandage, bag it up and deposit in the biohazard bin.  Clean the wound with saline.  The parts of the claw marks that have opened up show no sign of healing, remaining open wounds, the skin around them white and numb.  The thick, black blood continues to leak; it makes a cold sound as it falls into the porcelain sink, stains the white.  Darcy applies antiseptic cream, wraps her wrist thickly with gauze and adds a stretchy bandage on top.

There’s no need to change her clothing for bed, at least.  She just kicks off her slippers, takes off her glasses.  Climbs into bed, robe and all.  The rubber mattress liner crinkles beneath her.  Everything smells like antiseptic.

When she closes her eyes, she could almost imagine that she is eight years old again, in hospital to get her tonsils out.  The nurses had worn bright yellow scrubs, then, and they had brought her ice cream, red jelly.  In a rare show of maternal love, Darcy’s mother had even let her pick out a teddy bear from the gift shop.  She’d only been able to keep it for a week before she was made to donate it to the church for children who needed it more.

She turns onto her side, arranging her bandaged hand so that if it bleeds through the bandage, it’ll do so only onto the sheets.  She says a silent thank you to Jane for letting her know that her night, at least, would be uninterrupted.  Darcy figures that the amount of time it takes to get into those biohazard suits, people would be wanting to come here as few times as possible.

She stares at the wall, apprehension twisting in her stomach.  How has Loki spent his day?  Will she be walking in on the madman, the murderer, the lover?  There’s no way to know but to slip the ring on and find out.

The lightness that comes from slipping out of her body is heady.  She fairly skips back down the hallway to where the upside-down doorway waits.

It opens as she approaches, revealing the upside-down Asgardian library beyond.  A pair of chairs have been added to the room, both of them upholstered in dark gold velvet.  They’re arranged apart, but turned in to each other, a small table set between them.  The whole tableau is inviting; Darcy could easily imagine curling up in one of those chairs, a cup of coffee on the table, just reading in silence with someone else.

With Loki.

She looks past the chairs.  The opposite door is also open.  Silhouetted against the window containing the illusion of Asgard is Loki.

Darcy’s heart clenches painfully at the sight of him.  His tall, slender frame is already familiar to her, and she finds herself filled with the longing to reach out and slide her hands around his waist.  To press her lips to his, to taste his skin.  To listen to his heartbeat.

_There’s more than one Loki in that skin.  You don’t know which one is waiting there._

She steps over the threshold.  The spinning of gravity makes her stumble, and she lands painfully, thudding to the ground.  She makes more than enough noise for Loki to have heard her, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t turn.

Darcy pulls herself to her feet.  She’s still wearing her scrubs and robe, her feet bare.  She wishes that it could be like it was when she spoke with Frigga, when she could change her clothing just by wishing it.  Right now, she wishes she was wearing that emerald gown again.  Maybe the mask, too.

As she enters the antechamber, her breath catches in her throat, her heart thudding.  When she had left Loki he had been naked.  Now he was garbed in his Asgardian armour, sans helmet, his hair slicked back.

“At first, I thought that perhaps I was back in Asgard for true.”  Loki speaks without turning from the window.  His hands are folded in front of him, so she cannot see if he is holding anything.  “I even foolishly entertained the notion that I had been…”  He trails off.  His shoulders tense, then release.  “This is simply a new prison, is it not?  And what new torments does it have for the prisoner this night?  Thor, perhaps, granting me his everlasting forgiveness?  Perhaps, Odin calling me his son?”

Darcy wants so much to reach out to him, to embrace him.  But she sees that tension in his shoulders, in the long line of his back.  Knows that he is poised and ready.  To attack, to defend, to _fight_.  She wishes that she’d had time to ask Frigga more about the rings and how they worked.  If, for example, she was killed in projection, would her flesh body die?

She takes a step back into the library.  Swallows hard.  “Loki, it’s me.  It’s Darcy.”

He turns then.  His hands are empty, folded at his waist.  Cold green eyes sweep over her.  “If you think to attempt to seduce me, I suggest finding yourself some alternative garments.”  He presses his lips together, just a flicker of something in his eyes before they freeze over again.  “Darcy Lewis is dead.  You are not real.”

Darcy fights back tears.  Tells herself that at least he doesn’t have a weapon.  That he’s talking, and hasn’t retreated back into his frozen body in the cell.  “This isn’t a prison, Loki.  And I’m not dead.”

“Oh, so this is _freedom_ , is it?  An illusion of a place where I do not belong, have never belonged?  The realm that cast me out again and again?”

“It’s all that Frigga could-“

Loki swallows convulsively, his hands tensing.  “Oh, I know that this is her doing.  This place is _dripping_ with her magic.  Odin has long had the talent of bending others to his will.  I have no doubt that my - that _Frigga_ would bend to him.  Over and over again.”

“I don’t think your father even knows this place exists.  As far as he knows, if I guess right, you’re still in the cell beneath Stark Tower.”

“Odin is _not_ my father,” Loki says.  

“Frigga still considers herself your mother.  It took her a great deal of effort to create this place, to create these rings.”  Darcy holds up her hand to display her ring.  “She loves you, Loki.  As her son.”

Loki’s lips tighten.  “I am no one’s son.  Not any more.  Not ever, perhaps.”  He turns back to the window, hands behind his back.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t explain anything last night,” Darcy says.  “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep here.  I lost track of time.  I can only come here safely when my body is sleeping.  When they think I’m sleeping, anyway.”  Darcy’s wrist is itching beneath the bandage and elastic; she rubs it as gently as she can, but it only makes the itching worse.  It feels like something is crawling beneath her skin.  Like tiny serpents winding a labyrinth through her dermis.  “They’re watching me all the time.  If I hadn’t gone back when I did, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Loki says nothing, just continues to look out of the window.  She wonders if he’s even listening.

“Dammit, Loki, I’m going through all of this just to protect you!  If they think that you’ve compromised me, I don’t know what they’ll do to you.  Everything relies on them thinking that you’re locked away, that you can’t do anything.”  Still he says nothing.  “I’m playing fucking Patient Zero in quarantine and watching goddamn romantic comedies just to save your stupid ass!  They’re not even giving me coffee, for God’s sake.  And who knows where my iPod is?”  She can hear the rough edge of hysteria rising in her voice, but she can’t seem to stop the flow of words.  Her wrist is itching more and more, and she rubs the bandage harder, slides her nails under the edge of the gauze.  “You want to call this a prison?  Then fine, it’s a prison.  You should see how people are living in the world that _you_ destroyed.  I don’t even know what’s happening outside Stark Tower.  Beth and Ravi might be dead.  Vinh, too.  None of them did anything to deserve this.  All I wanted to do was _help_ them, to try to make a difference somehow, even if just for one person.  I tried to help _you_ , too, but maybe I shouldn’t have bothered.”

The dark scent of rotting rises.  She looks down, sees that she’s torn the bandage half away in her scratching.  The gauze is sodden black, drops of black blood falling to the floor.  They hit the ground with a sound like ice falling into fire.

“I don’t know if I can do this any more,” Darcy says.  The anger is gone from her suddenly, and she feels suddenly small, a child confronting a world too large and dark and unknown.  “I can’t even save myself.  I make these stupid decisions, just to save myself a bit of pain, and look what happens.  Why did I think I could save anyone else?”

She walks slowly back through the library.  Her legs shake with every step, as though her anger has burned away what remains of her energy.  She’s exhausted, and she wants to just _sleep_.  She leans against the shelves as she moves, her eyes on the doorway leading back into her Stark apartment.  Suddenly even the hospital bed is a welcome thought.

She is just about to step through the doorway when she hears Loki’s voice behind her.

“Don’t go,” he says, so softly that she always misses it.  “Please, Darcy, don’t go.”

She stops.  As soon as she ceases walking, her legs shake even more, crumple beneath her.  She starts to fall, but Loki is there, his arms coming around her, lifting her.  His armour has vanished, replaced by a dark green linen shirt and black trousers.  His hair is loose again, curling around his face.

“No fair, how come you get to change your clothes with magic, and I’m stuck in scrubs?”  Darcy asks, her voice slightly slurred.

The corner of Loki’s mouth twitches as he carries her through into the bathroom.  The bath is empty now, and appears much smaller than it has the previous night.  Loki lays her down on the side of the bath.  The marble is blessedly cool beneath her.

Loki kneels beside her, his fingers gentle as he peels back the layers of bandage.  When he sees the tattoo, the oozing wound, an expression Darcy cannot recognise passes over his face.  Fear?  Anger?

“They told me you were dead,” he says.  

“Not quite.”  

Darcy watches him as he folds the sodden bandage, sets it aside.  He opens hidden compartments, removes a length of pale linen, which he wraps the bandage in.  Another length he hands to Darcy, who takes it and holds it against the claw marks.  He produces oils and unguents from other compartments, dabs a bit of one against the edge of the blackened tattoo, wipes it off, dabs another.

“Can’t you just magic the black away?” Darcy asks.  “Like you did last time?”

“I only have access to part of my power here.”  Loki lifts up his hand.  Some black remains on the edge of his palm; around the dark liquid, his skin shimmers blue.  He wipes the black away, but the blue remains.  “Even if I was at my full power, this is stronger than I am.”  He concentrates, and the blue fades slowly.

Sickness twists in Darcy’s stomach.  “So I just get to slowly bleed to death?  Or will the poison get me first?”

“It’s not a poison, not as you think of it.  It is concentrated magic.  Destructive magic.”

“And how long before it destroys me?”

He pauses.  “It is difficult to know.  This kind of magic, it is chaotic, unpredictable.  It could be days only.”

“So I get to become chaotic evil, then?”

Loki looks up at her. “What?”

“Midgardian joke.  Ha ha, joke’s on you Darcy, because you’re gonna die.”  Darcy presses the cloth hard to her wrist.  Loki’s creams have calmed down the itching, at least, but she still has the unnerving sensation that something is crawling beneath her skin.

Loki sits back, cross-legged, hands palm-up in his lap.  He stares down at them as though they belong to someone else.

“Maybe Stark and Banner will find something,” Darcy says.  “Or Jane.  They’re treating it as a plague.  And hey, we’ve killed off a few plagues in our time.  Midgardians aren’t as stupid as you think we are.”  She presses the cloth harder against her wrist.  Her hand is growing numb.  Better than the crawling beneath her skin sensation, by a mile.

Loki slowly gathers up all the bottles and jars he opened, returns them to their compartments.  He finds another length of cloth, this one dark green, holds it between his palms.  Green light flares from his fingers, and the scent of something almost metallic rises.

“This should slow the bleeding, at least while you’re here,” he says, holding it out.

Darcy takes the other cloth away from her wrist.  She doesn’t want to look at the black, but she can’t seem to look away from it.  It’s so utterly without light, as though an abyss has been carved into her flesh.

“Can you…will you do it?” she asks.  “Bit hard with one hand.”

Loki’s hands tremble slightly as he wraps and fixes the bandage around her wrist.  The cloth is cool, and numbness creeps over her skin where it touches.  The crawling sensation even fades.  Darcy breathes out a sigh of relief.

“I need…I want to apologise,” Loki says, his eyes on his hands again.  “When you came to me, I thought you dead.  A dream.  A torment.”

“Not dead,” Darcy says.  “There’s a whole lot of medical data that’ll back that one up, too.”

“I was not apologising for that,” Loki says.  He twists his fingers together, untwists them again.  Runs his thumb over the hem of his shirt.  “I would not have…if I have known…”

“Oh.”  Tears prick at the corners of Darcy’s eyes; she blinks them away before Loki can see.  “You wouldn’t have soiled yourself with me, you mean?”

Loki looks up sharply.  “I would not have taken advantage of you and your weakened state.”

“Taken _advantage_ of me?”  Darcy stands, ignoring the dizziness that washes over her.  “For the record, I don’t think there was any taking advantage.  I was a willing participant, though right now I have no idea why.  God, I am so _sick_ of being the last person anyone thinks about, and the person nobody actually wants.  Maybe my father was right-“  She bites off that sentence, shaking her head.  “Even my _father_ was loved by my mother.  Enough that she covered everything up.  He was _innocent_ , don’t you know.  And her daughter, what a liar.  Slut who went around with every boy she could find, and has the audacity to blame her pure, innocent father.”  She curls her fingers into the hair at her temples, pulls hard.  The pain feels good.  “My brothers loved my mother enough to let her hold a shotgun to their heads, give them what she thought was mercy in a world going to hell.  Making sure that her beloved boys got to join her in heaven, and that daughter can just stay burning in hell.”  Darcy loosens her hands from her hair.  That crawling beneath the skin sensation is back now, moving all over her.  She wants to tear her skin away, flay her flesh from her bones.  She digs her nails into the soft flesh of her inner arm above the bandage.  It feels even better than pulling her hair.  “Even you, Loki.  You try to destroy everything, you try to destroy a whole _world_ , and your mother builds you a nice little palace so you can be safe and happy.  When your family thought you were dead, they mourned.  I don’t think anyone would even notice if I vanished right now.”

Loki has been watching her as she rants, his forehead creased.  He stands now, approaches her slowly, hands held out.  He keeps his eyes on hers as he grasps her hand, draws it away from her arm.  She’s dug deep enough to reveal muscle, unhealthily pale. As soon as her nails have been removed, the crescent-shaped gouges fill with thick black blood.  Around each of the wounds, black curlicues like the designs in the tattoo spiral out, sliding through her flesh like lines of infection.  All of them wind upwards to her heart.

“This kind of dark magic can affect emotions,” Loki says.  He draws out another length of fabric, spells it between his palms, his eyes on her the whole time.  He winds the spelled cloth around the new injuries, takes another damp cloth and cleanses the black blood from her nails.  “It can be…difficult to control its effects, even for one skilled in magic.”

He rolls up his sleeves, exposing the pale skin of his forearms.  Takes her hand, places it on the tender skin on the inner side of his arm, presses her nails against his flesh.

“If you need to hurt something, hurt me,” he says.  “Believe me, I am used to pain.”

Darcy looks down at her nails pressed against his skin.  Suddenly, her legs give way, and she’s falling.  Loki’s arms come around her, and he lifts her, carries her to the bedroom.  He lays her down on the bed, then vanishes into the main room.

Darcy curls onto her side.  He’s been lying on the pillows here recently, and she can smell him on the fabric beneath her cheek.  The anger has drained from her now, and in its place comes sorrow, welling thick within her chest until she fears that it’s going to choke her.  She curls herself even tighter, wraps her arms around her knees, lets the sobs come.

When the sorrow, at last, has drained away, Loki is there, lying curled behind her, holding her.  She feels utterly wrung out, empty of all feelings.  Loki says nothing, does nothing, just lies next to her, one hand entwined with hers.

She almost wants to start crying again.  Because, for once, there is someone here with her.

On the table next to the bed is a mug, steam rising from its rim.  Darcy’s eyes narrow, then, because it smells suspiciously like coffee.

“It is an elixir,” Loki says. 

Darcy props herself up on an arm, peering into the mug.  It certainly looks like coffee.  “If it really is coffee, it’s the damn elixir of life.”

“It should help slow the effects of the dark magic,” Loki says.  “Give you some time.”

She drinks.  The coffee even seems to have the amount of creamer and sugar she prefers, though she has no idea how Loki knows that.  Though, she supposes that he’s been in her dreams as much as she was in his.  He knows everything about her.  Shame rises in her, hot and smothering, and she has difficulty keeping the last swallow of her coffee down.

“What your father did was not of your choosing,” Loki says, taking the mug from her and setting it on the table.  “You cannot make it not happen.  All you can do is choose what you do with your life now.”

“I think you could do with listening to your own advice.”

Loki looks away.  “Did Frigga - did my _mother_ really build this place as a refuge for me?”

Loki is sitting cross-legged again, his hands in that deceptively relaxed position, palm-up.  Darcy pulls her knees up to her chest, though she holds her legs more loosely.  “Behind Odin’s back, which I’m guessing is not something anyone does lightly.  She really loves you.”  She glances over at Loki, sees tears on his cheeks.  “Who else would have left enough of your magic to conceal your Frost Giant nature?”

Loki’s features soften, and just for a moment, when he looks at her, she sees the younger version of him.  The one who had entered into Yrsa’s bedroom, the one who had still hoped.  It is clear that the notion had not occurred to him previously.

“And you have Thor,” Darcy continues.  “A brother who loves you through everything, and would do anything to keep you safe.  As you would for him, would you only admit it.”

“There, I am afraid, you have me very, very wrong,” Loki says.  “I tried to kill Thor.  I wanted to kill Thor.”

“You were being controlled-“

“No.  There was a degree of…coercion, but I was doing what I wanted.  I wanted to be the king my father always said I was born to be.  Both Thor and I, born to be kings.”

“That’s what he told you?”  Darcy lets her knees fall into a cross-legged position, mirroring Loki’s posture.  “Kind of stupid, telling both of your sons that they’re going to be king when there’s only one throne.”

“Ah, but there was Jotunheim.  Ripe for a puppet king.”

Darcy can’t help the laugh that bursts from her lips.  “I think you’re about as far from a puppet as anyone can get.  Did Odin even _know_ you?”

Loki slides her a sideways glance.  

“Seriously, though, what did Odin expect?  You vanquish a realm, rescue an orphan, then raise it with lies about who it is.  And teach it to hate what it is.  And then expect it to be what - a tool for you?  What did Odin think was going to happen?”

“Odin expects that what will happen will be what he wishes.  As always.”

“That speech you made, in Stuttgart.  It was kind of scary and I-want-to-conquer-you and all, but some of the things you said.  You were actually trying to help us, weren’t you?  In a messed up way, mind.”

“I’m not certain any longer of anything,” Loki says.  “Least of all myself.  The monster that I am.”

“Well, I’m certain of one thing.  Odin may have created a monster, but that doesn’t make you evil.  You’re not useless if you’ve helped just one person.”

“And whom have I saved?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s something that bugs me.  You had the sceptre of making people do whatever you want.  You made Hawkeye take down the Helicarrier, for God’s sake.  Then how come Erik had enough self awareness to build a back door to close the portal?  The only way that could have happened was because you wanted it to.  You _wanted_ the Chitauri to be defeated.  To save us.  To show Odin that you could do it as well as Thor.  To be Thor’s equal.”

Darcy reaches out, laces her fingers with Loki’s.  His fingers are cool against hers.

“And, more recently, you saved me,” she adds.

Loki looks down at their linked hands.  “I cannot turn away from the things I have done, the mistakes I made.  I cannot turn away from who I am, monster or otherwise,” he says.  “There is a price to be paid.”

“And like everyone who’s made choices in their life, you get to pay for it every day for the rest of your life.”  Darcy holds up her bandaged arm.  “Like I’m going to have to deal with basically summoning the goddess of death for the rest of my life.  All however-many days of it.”

Loki winces, as though his words have caused her physical pain.  “You said once that you blamed me for destroying your world.”

“And I do,” she says, and he winces again.  “But I also forgive you for it.”

He stares at her.  “You… _forgive_ me?”

“Yeah, I know, you’re a God, blah blah blah, and Gods probably don’t need to be forgiven by mortals.  But whatever else you are, you are also the man I see before me.  And I, Darcy Lewis, forgive you.”

Tears spill over onto his cheeks, trace silver tracks down his cheeks.

Darcy reaches up, kisses the tears on one cheek, then the next.  Tastes salt on her lips.

“The question right now is this, Loki.  Your mother has given you a chance.  Or, as she said, she’s given you doorways.  What are you going to do with that chance?  What are you going to choose to do?”

He looks away for a moment, presenting her with his profile.  Again, she is struck by him, and again she can easily see how people could kneel to him.  If Odin had chosen to raise his younger son in a different fashion, Loki could indeed have become something great.

When he turns back to her, that wicked smile is blooming on his face.  “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

 

 


	24. See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always for comments and kudos and subscriptions. I love you all :)
> 
> TW: for reference to childhood sexual abuse (nothing explicit).

“First, we need some ground rules,” Darcy says.

Loki’s smile fades.  “Rules?”

Darcy fights the urge to roll her eyes at the look on his face, the lines on his forehead that indicate that he’s already beginning to try to figure out ways to bend or break the rules, even before they’ve been set.

“To keep us safe,” she adds.  “I can’t lose track of time here, not like last time.  They’re going to come to do tests in the morning, and if they can’t wake me, I don’t know what will happen.  I _do_ know that they will likely blame you, and I know that Daniel Blackwood is probably itching for a chance to play with his new toys.”

Loki’s whole body tenses at the mention of Blackwood’s name.  He flicks a finger, and a very familiar clock appears on the wall.  It is ornate, carved from wood and accented with gilt.  The dial holds thirteen numbers.  The hour hand currently sits at four o’clock.

Darcy smiles despite herself.  “Thirteen o’clock, time to go home?  That’ll work.”

Some of the tension fades from Loki, and he stretches out his legs, running his knuckles up and down the long muscles of his legs in an incredibly distracting fashion.  “This tale, this _Labyrinth_ , it was important to you.  What, exactly, is the appeal of it?”

“Apart from David Bowie in tights?”  Darcy’s cheeks grow warm at the memory of the dream she had shared with Loki.  “It’s a fairytale, isn’t it?  You’re an ordinary girl, sad and frustrated with your life, and this all-powerful, drop-dead gorgeous guy wants to make you his queen.  He _sees_ you, in a way that no one else does.  You know he could just take you, bewitch you, but instead he gives you all these choices.  You can find your own power, find out who you really are, what you’re capable of.”  Darcy pushes her hair back from her face.  “I always liked to think that Jareth waited for her to grow up, that when she was older, she went willingly into the labyrinth, that she found Jareth and he got the queen he needed to balance him.”

Loki’s hands have stilled.  He still has his hands curled into fists, but he’s just resting them on his thighs now, listening.

“I used to lie in bed at night when I was a kid, chanting all of the words from the movie over and over.  Trying to get the goblins to come.  Looking for owls.  I wanted someone to see me the way Jareth saw Sarah.  The only person who ever saw me was my father, and it wasn’t ever really _me_ he was seeing.  I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t me.”

Loki swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and Darcy freezes, thinking that he’s going to walk away.  And, after all, why wouldn’t he?  No one liked to hear about these kinds of things.  She’d learned that one far too many times in her life.  When things get too hard, people walk away.

But Loki doesn’t leave.  He circles around the bed, comes around to stand in front of her.  He holds out a hand.  She reaches out with her unbandaged hand, and he draws her to her feet.

And then Loki kneels before her.

“I see you, Darcy Lewis,” he says, looking up at her.  His voice trembles slightly, as do his fingers.  “I see you.”

His eyes are so intense that she has to look away.  And is promptly faced by the horrible white scrubs she’s still wearing.  And the fact that she probably reeks of disinfectant and God knows what else.

“I don’t think anyone should be unlucky enough to see me right now,” she says with a weak laugh, plucking at the hem of her shirt.  She means for it to be a light comment, but it comes out as anything but.

“That much, at least, is easily fixed here,” Loki says.  “Close your eyes.”

Darcy does so.  His hand remains in hers for a heartbeat longer, than falls away.  Darcy feels the loss of his touch as an almost physical ache.

A wave of cold prickles over her skin.

“You can open your eyes now,” Loki says.

The white scrubs are gone, replaced by the emerald velvet dress she’d worn in the ballroom dream.  Her hair is curled and hangs loose down her back, and she can feel the soft bite of combs that hold her hair back from her face, knows they are the replicas of Frigga’s combs.  

Loki is standing back from her, something of wariness in his eyes.  “Better?”

Darcy shifts her weight slightly, then frowns.  She’s pretty sure that there’s no underwear beneath the gown, which is strapless, and - she bounces up and down on her toes - without boning or other means of support.  And yet when she moves, her breasts stay supported.

“What _are_ you doing?” Loki asks, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

“It’s magic, isn’t it?” she asks, bouncing again.  Noting that his eyes go straight to her chest when she moves, she does it again.  “Neat trick by the Asgardian ladies, there.”  She pauses, eyeing him.  “And you know this trick because?”

“Ah.  I have, on occasion, found the female form to be a useful one.”

“Um.” Darcy looks him up and down, trying to imagine what kind of female form he would choose.

“Stop that.”

Darcy arranges her face into her best innocent expression.  “Stop what?”

“Whatever it is that you’re thinking now.”

“You want me to stop _thinking_?”  Darcy makes her eyes wider.  Bounces on her toes again.  Loki’s lips twitch, and she grins.  “Maybe you should find a way to make me.”

Loki raises an eyebrow.  She’s not entirely certain what she expects - from Loki, practically anything seems possible - but it isn’t for him to draw himself up into a formal stance, then fall into a neat, graceful bow.

He rises, one hand held out.  “Would you dance with me, Lady Darcy?”

Darcy feels herself flush.  “There’s no music.”

A small movement of Loki’s fingers, and music begins to play.  It emanates from everywhere, and sounds something like the _Moonlight Sonata_ , though Darcy cannot recognise the instruments it’s being played on, and there is a dark sensuality underscoring the lighter melody.

Two steps are all that separates Darcy from Loki.

Only two steps, and yet she knows that in making the decision to cross that gap, she is making another, greater decision.  To accept Loki, to let him accept her.  To see him and to let herself be seen, darkness and light.

Loki watches her.  He does not move, and his expression does not change, but she can see that softer, younger version of himself behind his eyes.  The uncertainty that he hides there, the young boy who stands ever prepared for rejection.

Darcy takes the steps.

She takes his hand.

His fingers are trembling as she curls her hand in his.  And Loki _smiles_.  Not the manipulative smile he’s so fond of, not the sarcastic little smirk, but a real, genuine smile of happiness.

Darcy’s heart breaks a little, seeing that smile.  Remembering him reflexively falling into a defensive stance when she offered massage, remembering him falling, burning, rejected, overlooked.

She tightens her hand on his, places her other hand on his shoulder.  His other hand comes around her waist, pulls her close enough that she can feel the heat of his body, but not close enough that they are touching.

And they dance.

After the first few steps, she doesn’t listen to the music, doesn’t think just loses herself in the rhythm of their bodies.  Loki’s eyes never move from hers as he guides her effortlessly through the steps.  Darcy has never considered herself to be a good dancer, but with Loki, it is easy to fall into the graceful arcs of his movements, to just let everything flow.

The music finishes, and then they are standing there next to the bed.  Both of them are breathing rapidly, though they have not physically exerted themselves overmuch in the dance.  

“You are alive,” Loki says, his voice a rough whisper.  “You are here. Willingly?”

Darcy nods, her mouth dry.

“Say it,” Loki says, and there is something of desperation in his voice.

She meets his gaze as directly as he looks at her, does not look away.  “I am alive.  I am here.  Willingly, with you.”

“This is not a dream.”

“Not a dream.”

“I see you, Darcy, and I-“ Loki swallows hard.  “I want you.”

And everything fades.  There is only Loki, his eyes on her, his hands on her.  “I see you.  And I want you, _Loki_.”

His breath catches in his throat.  “Say it again.”

“Loki.  I am here, and I see you, and I choose to be here with you.  And I want you more than anything, more than anyone I have ever known.”

His lips come down hard on hers.  There is no finesse in this kiss, just pure hunger, the heat of his lips and tongue sliding against hers.  Darcy melts into his arms, presses the length of her body against his.  He lowers her to the bed, and it feels as though they are stationary, the world rotating around them.

Loki pulls back slightly, holding his weight on his arms.  There is something like wonder in his eyes as he looks down at her with that intense gaze.  It feels as though he’s looking deep into her, seeing all of the places she has always hidden from everyone.  She is filled by a sudden urge to cover herself, for all that she’s still fully clothes.

“It’s not easy for you, is it?” Loki asks.  “Intimacy.”

“And it’s a piece of cake for you, right?” she retorts, wincing at the defensive tone on her voice.  Loki immediately starts to pull away, but she grabs his arm, stalling the movement.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just…no, it’s never been easy for me.  I mean, it’s easy to be with someone physically, but you’re not really _there_ , you know.  It’s hard to be with anyone properly when every time they touch you, you’re thinking of how your father touched you there once.  It’s like it all gets carved into your brain, and you’re a record player that just plays the same tune over and over.  And you want to smash it to pieces, and you don’t know how.  Not without smashing everything.”

Loki is silent, just letting her speak.

“In high school, all of my friends were excited about losing their virginity to their boyfriends.  Talking about where they’d been touched, how he’d kissed here _there_ and wasn’t that just daring of them.  I had a boyfriend, too, and I tried to be like them, but I just couldn’t.  Later on, in college, I found that alcohol made it easier.  Sometimes, I’d just pretend I was somewhere else, just shut down.  Not exactly the kindest thing to do to the person you’re with, but it hurts them less than pushing them away all the time.”

“What about you?  Didn’t it hurt you?  Lying all the time?”

“No one ever complained.  Hell, no one even noticed.  Everyone always commented on how happy and easygoing I always was.”

“You wear a mask often enough, and you start to become the mask.”

Darcy nods.  “And it’s not like you count, anyway.  You do all this for other people, but after a while you start to wonder if anyone would do the same for you.”

Loki smiles, and there is sadness in his eyes.  “Exactly.”

Darcy reaches up, cups his cheek.  “Right now, there are no masks.  Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoes.  He leans in, kisses her softly.  “Do the memories worry you now?”

She shakes her head.  “After I…”  She trails off, glancing at her bandaged arm.  “The memories are still there, but it’s like they belong to someone else.  They still come up, but I don’t _feel_ them.”

He does that intense stare thing again, and again she has to look away.

“But you feel something,” Loki says.  “Something that makes you look away.”

“I guess…I guess I’m not used to anyone actually trying to see me.”  Darcy thinks.  “I guess I feel guilty?”

He stiffens.  “Because of being with me?”

“No.”  She pulls him over so he’s above her again.  Wraps her arms around his shoulders, hooks her legs around the back of his thighs.  He hesitates, then slowly lowers himself to her, still holding most of his weight on his arms.  “ _No_.  I feel guilty because of _me._   I feel like I’m stealing this from someone.  It feels like I cheated.  It feels like I don’t deserve this.”

“This?”

“You.  Anything good.”

It is his turn to look away this time.  “It has been a long time since anyone called me good.”

Darcy smiles, turns his face back so his eyes meet hers again.  “You can pretend all you want, Trickster, but I can see the good guy in there.”

“Oh really?”  He is practically purring as he reaches down, finds the slit in her skirt.  Trails his fingers lightly up her thigh to her hip.  He moves up the outer curve of her hip slowly, his thumb sweeping over the place where her hip dips down to her stomach.  That wicked smile is back on his face again as he circles his thumb again and again.

“Um.  What?” Darcy asks.  “I forget what we were talking about.”

He laughs, and claims her mouth again.  His hands move around to cup her behind as he presses his body down against hers.  Darcy makes a small involuntary noise of pleasure as he slides his body against hers, pulls her thighs up around his waist.  Through the layers of fabric that separate them, she can feel his hardness pressing against her.

Darcy’s lips almost feel bruised when Loki begins to kiss his way along her jawline, moves down to her throat.  His tongue presses, hot, against her pulse, and he nips her skin lightly with his teeth, drawing a strangled gasp from her.  She feels him smile against her skin.

She reaches out, grabs his shirt, wanting to feel his skin beneath her hands, but he pauses, lifts away from her.  Grabs her wrists and presses them down against the bed above her head.

“I want you to feel this,” he says.  “ _Really_ feel this, really be here.  I also want you to keep your hands here.  I can use magic to bind them if you think you can’t…control yourself.”  That smile of his blooms, but she can also see that uncertainty warring behind his eyes.  The need to be trusted.

“I’ll keep them there,” Darcy says, curling her fingers together.

Loki’s pupils dilate, and then his smile widens.  He moves a hand, and her gown is gone, Darcy naked beneath him.  She moves reflexively to cover herself, the fact that he’s still fully dressed making her feel even more exposed, but he raises an eyebrow.  Her heart thudding, she returns her arms to above her head.

Loki kneels back, spends a long time just looking at her, his hands pressed against his thighs.  Darcy would almost think him aloof, untouched, but as she looks at him, she sees the subtle signs of his arousal.  The way his breath catches in his throat, the tension in the muscles of his thighs, his pupils growing ever darker and wider.

When he finally touches her, her eyelids drift closed.  She can almost see his touches in the darkness there, everything feels so vivid. 

He spends a long time tracing the lines of her: the curve of her collarbones, the subtle jut of her ribs and hips, the lengths of her arms and legs.  He even traces the spaces between her fingers and toes, the latter bringing giggles from her and an amused chuckle from him.

He follows his fingers with his mouth, tracing the same lines he has already taken, as though he wants to delineate the boundary of her body.  In the darkness, Darcy sees herself sketched by his touches: shining and new, bright as pearl.

By the time he finishes his second traverse, she is breathing fast, her hips shifting restlessly against the bed.  He drops a kiss against the soft swell of her belly, and she bites her lip to smother a moan.

And then he is gone, his weight lifted from the bed.

Darcy opens her eyes.  Everything is dark.  She blinks.  Blinks again.  Everything remains black.

“Loki?” she asks.  She lifts her head, tries to squint through the darkness.  Something cold snakes through her.  “Loki?  Are you there?”  Her voice trembles,  and she recognises fear in her words.  “Loki!”

A pale light flares in the darkness.  She blinks against it, realises that it’s something like a sphere of light held in Loki’s hand.  He’s standing next to the bed, watching her.  As soon as he sees her face, he sits down next to her, gathers her into his arms.  Darcy realises that she’s shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “Are you okay?  Did I…did I do something wrong?”

Darcy presses her face into his shoulder.  “It wasn’t you.  It was just the darkness.  The last time things were that dark…”  She inclines her head to her bandaged arm.

“Oh.”  Loki pulls her into his lap.  The sphere of light floats up above the bed, illuminating them.  “I didn’t even think…”

Darcy breathes in slowly, releases the breath.  The fear is already fading, Loki’s arms around her making her feel that nothing could touch her.  She kisses his collarbone, moves up to his throat.  Nips the skin above his pulse in the same way he’d done to her earlier.

“I didn’t move my hands, though, did I?” she asks.

Loki moves swiftly, and then she is on her back on the bed again, hands above her head, Loki’s fully-clothed body pressed against her naked skin.  He kisses her deeply, his hips rocking against hers in a maddening rhythm.

Loki pulls back, looks down at her.  His pupils are blown wide.  “No, you did not.”

He kisses his way down her throat and across her collarbones, licks lightly at the hollow at the base of her throat.  Moves lower, places a kiss on one nipple, then the other.  Darcy arches her back, hoping that he will linger there, but he continues moving downwards.  Each time he kisses lower, he moves his body against hers; the feeling of him fully clothed against her nakedness is incredibly intoxicating.

By the time he is kneeling between her thighs, she is shifting restlessly against the bed again, her eyes drifting closed.  The sphere of light Loki conjured is bright enough for her to see the pattern her blood makes as it moves through the thin skin of her eyelids, the rush of her blood made art.

“Look at me,” Loki says softly.

Darcy opens her eyes.  He is sitting back on his heels, naked now, and aroused.  The light shimmers against his skin, catches at the myriad of scars engraved on his flesh.  In this light, he looks like he is carved from marble.  Darcy is abruptly aware of her own less-than-perfect skin, the folds and flaws of her humanity.

“You are beautiful, Darcy,” Loki says.  “You have no idea.”  He places his hands on her knees, those long fingers brushing against the inside of her thighs.  “I have something I would like to try.  It will require darkness, but I will not leave you.  You need only say the word and the light will be back.”

An echo of that cold fear winds through Darcy, but Loki’s touch makes it easier to bear.  She flexes her fingers, and Loki’s eyes flick to where her hands are still held above her head; he smiles slightly.

“I trust you,” Darcy says.

There is a flash of light reflected in his eyes that might be tears, and then the light winks out.

For a long time the only thing she feels are Loki’s hands on her knees, his fingers moving in that rhythm that is part soothing, part arousing.  Then one of his hands lifts away, and the other moves in slow circles up her inner thigh.  Up and up, almost maddeningly slow, until he almost reaches her centre.  A light chuckle, and he skips his fingertips over to the inside of her other thigh, moves back up to her knee.

Darcy growls in frustration, and he laughs again, pure pleasure in that sound.

He performs the same movement with his fingertips in reverse, again skipping over the place where she wants him to touch her the most.

Then he lifts away from her.  Panic rises in Darcy, but she pushes it down, focusing on the fact that she _knows_ he is still there.  That he will not let anything happen to her.  That she is safe.

And then, the lightest touch of his lips against the inside of her left knee.  His mouth follows the path his fingers took, nipping at her skin here, licking there.  He pauses sometimes, and just _breathes_ against her skin, his breath coming warm and then cool.  It is a strange sensation, and one that sets her heart beating even faster, her fingers clutching hard at each other.

He moves back and forth, lips and teeth and tongue and hands sliding and caressing up and down her inner thighs, fingers circling up over her stomach, but always, _always_ moving over the place she needs him.

He lifts away again.  This time there is no fear, just the pure _need_.

And then, _finally_ , he touches her, a single finger sliding inside her, slipping out, sliding in again.  Darcy’s hips are moving in a primal rhythm as he adds another finger, another, thrusting deeper each time, curling his fingers back until he just finds the place she wants him, and-

-and he pulls away again.

Darcy growls again.  “You are a tease,” she grinds out.  She wants to reach out to him, to grab his shoulders and wrestle him so he’s beneath her and he cannot get away, but she keeps her hands above her head, her fingers clenches so tightly together that they’re going numb.

She feels the bed shift as Loki moves, though she cannot tell where he is in the absolute darkness.  

Her heartbeat drums in her ears as she waits.  One breath, two.

And then, his voice, close by her ear, his breath whispering across the sensitised skin of her throat: _“Come.”_

And she does.  His _voice_ alone is enough to tip her body over into orgasm, pleasure so intense that she whites out for a moment.

When it subsides, she gazes, heavy-lidded, up into the darkness.  Releases a shuddering breath.

Loki touches her clenched hands lightly.  “You can move your hands now.”

Pins and needles prickle along her hands, her arms, her shoulders, and her fingers are half numb, but she reaches out, unerringly, and finds the broad sweep of Loki’s shoulders, pulls him down to her.  His skin is heated, almost feverish, against hers, and his heart is racing almost as fast as her own.  He is hard against her thigh, his hips making small, involuntary movements against her.  And that is more than enough to arouse her again.

Darcy tangles a hand in his hair, pulls his mouth down to hers.  Her other hand slides down his body, curves around his hip, slides over him.  She thumbs the head of him, and he makes a strangled noise deep in his throat.  She wraps her fingers around his shaft, lines him up with her.

“Next time,” she says against his lips.  “I get to tease _you_.”

He smiles, and she swears she can see his eyes twinkle, even in the darkness.  “I will be your humble servant.”

She pulls him inside her, thrusts her hips up at the same time, wraps her legs around his hips.  She presses her hands against his behind, holds him still, just feeling him inside of her.  He is large, larger than anyone she’s been with before, and he just feels so _right_ inside her.

She slides her hands up, skimming the muscles of his back, curls her fingers into his hair again.  When she pulls lightly, he makes a sound caught between a growl and a purr, and he thrusts hard into her.

“Humble servant?” Darcy asks, pulling just slightly harder.

He makes that noise again, arching his head back.  The sphere he conjured earlier flickers, allowing Darcy to see him.  His eyes are closed, his mouth open, his neck a long, pale arch.  She licks a long stripe up along where his pulse beats, bites lightly, and he shudders, thrusts hard again.

_Oh, next time is going to be interesting indeed._

Darcy releases her hold on Loki’s hair.  His eyes are unfocused as he twines his fingers with hers and begins to move in earnest.  There is no more teasing, nothing but the rhythm of their bodies moving together.  Darcy climaxes again quickly, expects him to follow soon after.  He manages to hold out until she shudders again, and then, finally, spills inside her with a series of quick, hard thrusts, his body shuddering.

When they are both still, Loki rolls over onto his back, settling Darcy so she rests beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.  

Darcy, for once, can think of nothing to say.  She just lies there, completely relaxed against him, listens to the slowing of his heartbeat, feels his skin cooling beneath her cheek.

She’s not sure if she sleeps or not, but the next thing she’s aware of is the clock striking thirteen o’clock.  As the last chime sounds, the room lightens, filling with a golden light.

Darcy whines, snuggles down into the pillows.  She allows herself a moment only of that bliss before she pulls her head up.  Loki is lying on his side, head propped up on an elbow, watching her.

“Um.”  Darcy pushes her tangled hair back from her face.  She doesn’t want to think how she looks right now.  “Hi.”

Loki,infuriatingly, looks practically perfect.  Even the mussed locks of his hair looks like a deliberate choice.  “Good morning.”

“Did I fall asleep?”  Darcy stretches, her joints popping and cracking.  “You should have woken me up.”

Loki’s eyes skim across her body, his lips curving in a smile.  “Your physical body needs rest.  I suspect that it only truly rests when you sleep here.”

“Boring.”  Darcy’s arm is itching again beneath the bandages; she scratches as lightly as she can around the edges.  She stretches again, deliberately arching her back.  “I can think of a few less boring things to do.”

Loki’s eyes are on her arm.  “You need to return to your body, Darcy.”

Darcy eyes the clock balefully, slumps back.  “I know. Dammit.”

“Indeed.”

He leans over and kisses her softly.  When he pulls back, Darcy finds that she’s dressed in her scrubs again.  Loki is back in his tunic and trousers.

“Boring,” Darcy says again.  But she sighs and sits up, swings her legs out of the bed.  Begins walking across the rooms to the door leading back to her apartment.  Loki follows her.

“I will continue working on countering the dark magic,” Loki says. 

Darcy rubs at the bandages.  That crawling feeling beneath her skin is back again.  She tries not to think of Loki talking about the chaotic dark magic.  Days, he had said.  She might only have days.

“There will be something, right?” Darcy asks.  “You’ll find something.”

Loki looks away, just briefly, before he smiles.  “I will find something.”

They enter the library.  The door leading to Darcy’s apartment is open.  The curtains are still closed, though light is leaking around their edges, and she knows that they will open any moment.  Knows that she should step through, give herself a margin of safety.

She doesn’t step through.  She turns to Loki, wraps her arms around him, presses her face into his chest.  Inhales the smoke-and-leather scent of him, tries to memorise it.  His arms come around her, and he holds her as tightly as she holds him.

“I’m going to go and be a model patient.  Who knows, maybe the doctors will find something, too.”

She can practically hear Loki roll his eyes.

Darcy rises up on her toes to kiss Loki.  “Okay, you get to work, magician.  And I expect a whole vat of that magic coffee to be waiting for me tonight, okay?”

Loki presses a kiss to her forehead, then her lips.  Then, finally, he steps back, falls into a formal bow and kisses her knuckles.  Flicks his eyes up at her, then turns her hand, presses another kiss to her palm.  She feels the heat of his tongue against her skin, and then he stands again.

“Until tonight, Lady Darcy.”

Darcy grins, knowing that she probably looks like a fool, and not caring in the least.  Steps through the door, waits for the tumble and twist of gravity shifting.

It doesn’t come.

She hangs over the threshold, weightless, caught between one step and the next.  The itching beneath her skin deepens, until she feels as though there are serpents crawling beneath the skin all over her body.

Everything is frozen.  To one side, the empty apartment, the curtains caught just as they are beginning to open.  To the other, Loki, a half-born smile on his face.

And then everything goes black.

It is a complete and utter darkness, a viscid thing deeper than anything she has ever known.  She can feel it pressing against her skin, against her ears and mouth, against the surface of her eyes.

_“Supplicant.”_

The sound of that voice turns Darcy’s blood to ice.

Hel steps forward out of the darkness.  She seems formed of shadows herself: her skin the dark grey of rotting wood beneath a half-full moon, her hair the black of the nighttime ocean in between wave crests.  Her eyes are abysses, pools of black that go down and down forever.

The goddess of death reaches out a hand.  Instead of fingernails, she has tough, curved claws, thick as horn and stained black.  She trails her claws down the bandages wrapping Darcy’s right arm.  Green light shimmers as the strands separate and fall away.  Hel drags her claws across the tattoo around Darcy’s wrist, slides them higher to the newer marks.  Digs into the crescent-shaped wounds Darcy made with her nails, then drags her claws across the original gouges in Darcy’s wrist.  Black blood wells again, flows into the surrounding darkness.

Hel lifts a claw to her lips.  Her tongue - dark grey and forked - flickers over the blood clinging there.  Green light sparks and dies between her lips.

Hel’s eyes widen slightly.  “Asgardian magics?”  Her tongue flickers over the blood again.  “And yet…not.”

She waves a hand, and the doorway appears again.  Loki stands frozen behind it, still caught in the act of smiling.  His pupils dilate, then contract, and Darcy knows that, even though Hel allows him no other movement, he can still see.

Hel points a clawed finger at Darcy.  “Who is he?”

Darcy presses her lips together, but Hel curls her finger in the air, makes a pulling motion, and the words spill out.  “Loki.  Raised as a prince of Asgard, but born to Jotunheim.”

“ _Jotunheim?_ ”  Hel stalks around Darcy.  Her tattered skirts part as she walks, revealing rotting flesh beneath, the gleam of bare bone.  “You know not what you spar with, _little prince_.  You pretend to be gods, pretend to be immortal.  Look upon the face of that which truly lives forever, and _fear me_.”

Hel raises a fist, and the darkness lifts.  She curls her fingers, and Darcy moves as Hel does, pulled like a marionette.  When Hel lets her still, she is facing away from Loki, though she can feel his presence at her back, a solid weight in the world.

The world twists, and then they are in what used to be Central Park.  They sky above is deep grey, the flat light emanating from it like that of a total eclipse.  All of the green living things that had once filled the park are gone, replaces by blackened trees bereft of life.  The once-fertile soil is covered by a thick layer of what looks like ash.

Everything is dead.

Everything, apart from the great tree that springs from the centre of the park.

It is even larger than Darcy had thought, its highest branches taller than any mountain Darcy has seen.  Every branch and twig glows with an eerie light, like static drained of movement.

In the ash surrounding the tree, there are dozens of shadows.  At first, Darcy takes them for scorch marks, but then one moves, and she realises that they are people.

Hel walks through the ash, her feet leaving not a mark in the soft grey.  As soon as she enters the circle  of people, all of them rise, turning as one to fix their eyes on her.

And Darcy’s heart skips, because the closest faces are ones she recognises.  Beth and Ravi.  Max.  More than she knows by sight, but knows no name for.

Hel crooks a finger, and Max stands.  He shuffles towards them, clouds of ash rising in his wake.  He comes to a halt an arms length from hell, his eyes downcast.

He is naked, the black markings covering almost the entirely of his body.  The tattoos look as though they have scrawled on top of one another, over and over; the skin of his arms and legs is solid black, and only small patches of white skin show through on his torso.  Even the whites of his eyes have been marked with curlicues.

Darcy finds that she is able to move her eyes, now, too.  She looks around the gathered shadow people.  Beth has two clear patches on the back of her shoulder blades, like wings yet to be shaded in by an artist.  Ravi’s entire left foot is untouched, though his eyes are both solid black.  Neither of them, nor Max, react to Darcy’s presence.  There seems to be no life behind their changed arms at all.

Hel runs a claw down Max’s chest, digs into the slender space between two ribs.  His only reaction is a light shudder as thick black blood begins to flow.  

“Choose one, supplicant,” Hel says to Darcy.  “Choose one to become shadow entire.”

Darcy wants to turn away.  Wants to run.  Can do neither.

Hel has given her no control over her muscles apart from her eyes, and so, all she can do is think her reply: _No._

A smile splits Hel’s face, revealing too many teeth in her jaws, all of them rotting.  “I was hoping you would say that.”

Hel raises her fist, and the darkness descends.  When it lifts, they are standing in another place familiar to Darcy.  The storage room in Vinh’s bunker.

The long shelves are almost completely empty, just one single box tucked away in the corner.  The door is closed, and the only light comes from a hand-cranked camping lantern, its bulb glowing dim orange.  Hel touches a finger to the side of the lantern, and it flares into full life.

Vinh’s photographs have been moved to the wall in here, his family smiling out from paper worn and creased from much handling.  A pile of crumpled blankets rest in one corner.  And even though Darcy is frozen, not even breathing, she is aware of the sick-sweet stench of death here.

“This one proved…stubborn,” Hel says.

The goddess of death moves around the small room.  Flicks the edge of a photograph with a claw, drags another claw down the edge of a shelf, drawing a sound like a scream from the metal.  Picks up the box on the shelf, slices it open.  Inside is a can of peaches, a can of cream, a tube of coffee and milk concentrate.  Hel tosses the box aside, and Darcy sees her own name written on the side in Vinh’s careful handwriting.

If Darcy was able to cry right now, she would be sobbing.

Hel squats down next to the pile of blankets.  Pulls out a vial of pills, rattles it and tosses it away.  Draws a corner of the blankets aside.

Vinh lies beneath.

He is desperately thin, his skin yellow and waxen, drawn tight over his bones.  He is barely breathing.

“I thought that this one would be the easiest,” Hel says.  She speaks in an impassive tone; she might as well have been commenting on the weather.  She drags her nails through what remains of Vinh’s hair in a twisted mockery of a maternal gesture.  “Rotting from within even before the world fell.  Others in the same situation welcomed me with open arms, desperate to end their pain.”

 _Rotting?_ Darcy asks in her mind.

A broken grin blooms on Hel’s face.  “Oh, little supplicant, did he hide it from you?”  She pulls the blankets away completely.  Vinh wears only a pair of tattered, stained shorts.  His bones press out against his skin, and black bruises mark his shoulders, hips and knees.  Hel presses a claw into Vinh’s stomach, drawing bright red blood. “Such a tiny organ, the pancreas.  Just a few cells drawn towards chaos.  He had faith in your healers, in the poisons they gave him.  Even after the world fell, he had faith.  Would not come to me.”  Hel licks the blood from her finger.  “Not like you, little supplicant.  Your desperation to be rid of your pain, it was exquisite indeed.”

_Vinh waits to see his family again in heaven._

“Heaven?”  Hel stands, her skirts flying around her like broken wings.  “Heaven does not exist.  It is a myth, a story.  There is only the darkness.”

Vinh stirs, moaning thinly.  Hel’s lips twist, and then darkness crawls over her.  In its wake, she changes, becomes a mirror image of Darcy.  Hel kneels down next to Vinh, draws his head into her lap, strokes her fingers through his hair.

“Shhhh,” she says, her voice an exact imitation of Darcy’s.  “It’s okay, Vinh.  I’m here.”

Vinh’s eyes flutter open.  The whites are yellow.  “Miss Darcy,” he says.  “I have waited…I have…”

“Shhhh,” Hel intones again.  “You don’t need to say anything, Vinh.  It’s all okay now.”

Vinh blinks; Darcy can hear his eyelids scraping over the dry surface of his eyes.  “I kept…box…for you…”

“I know.  I know.  Thank you.”  Hel’s eyes flick up to Darcy, and she smiles quickly.  “You’ve done so much for everyone else.  It’s time to let someone do something for you.”

“…me?”

“I have medicine.  It will help.”  Hel smiles a horribly reassuring smile with Darcy’s lips.  “Just a quick injection, and all the pain will be gone.”

Sweat breaks out on Vinh’s face as he strains to smile.  “And I will see them?”

Hel’s eyes move up to the photographs.  She licks her lips.  “You will see them.  Just one quick injection.”

Vinh closes his eyes, nods.  “Thank you…Miss Darcy.  You…good…”

Hel looks directly at Darcy as she pieces Vinh’s carotid with her nail.  As the black curlicues move over his body, she shifts back to her true form, drops a kiss onto his forehead.  The black spreads quickly, flowing over Vinh’s skin like a wave of solid ink.  Soon he is completely covered, completely black.

The lantern fades, and the room fills with that flat static-like light.

There is a sound like a sigh, and Vinh’s body falls to ash.  The same thick, grey ash that had coated the grounds of central park.  Hel inhales deeply, and her skin glows.

For a moment, Hel is still, head back, eyes closed and lips parted.  

Then her eyes open to slits.  She holds out a clawed hand.  “You can step into the darkness right now, little supplicant, if you wish.  No more struggle, no more pain.  No more tests, no more friends who don’t trust you.  Just the deep, cool dark.”

_No._

Hel laughs, low and grating.  “You _will_ come to me, and willingly.  In time.”

Hel points a finger.  Things crawl beneath Darcy’s skin.  In her peripheral vision, she can see the black marks crawling over her arm, covering it as completely as a glove and sleeve.

“You will come, Darcy.  And you will _beg_ for me to end the pain.”

_NO!_

At first, Darcy thinks the protest is her own.  Then she realises that it’s Loki, his own voice and power pressing out against Hel’s bonds on them both.

Hel makes a dismissive noise, flicks her fingers.  Darcy senses that she uses only the smallest fraction of her power, but it is enough to shatter everything.

The world breaks, then jolts, and Darcy wakes up in her body, in the hospital bed in her Stark apartment, the curtains opening to let the thin grey light of the morning into the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 


	25. Correspondence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking a little longer to get this chapter up - this has not been a good week for me spoon-wise. I should be back to updating twice-weekly, or thereabouts, hopefully.
> 
> As always, thank you for everyone who's reading along. You readers are why I'm still writing this. And why I've written almost 90k in a matter of months. We may actually be closer to the end than I thought, since my subconscious decided to throw in a few curve balls in this chapter which may...accelerate events somewhat.
> 
> Especial thanks to the people who leave comments, send asks on Tumblr or post reaction gifs. You guys rock.
> 
> Which basically translates as: brace yourself for feels over the next few chapters. I'm going to try to sneak in some more smut to make it more fun, though.

Vinh is dead.

Darcy’s body is shaking, the movement making something in the frame of the bed vibrate, resonating with a low humming sound.  It sounds like the wind blowing through the cracks in the ceiling of a disintegrating house.  It sounds like the world falling apart.

_Vinh is dead._

When Darcy had moved to the city, she had spent the first few days holed up in her apartment, overwhelmed by everything.  When the need for coffee had driven her out, Vinh’s tiny store had seemed a haven.  He had greeted her with a friendly nod, then sat behind the counter and let her browse for as long as she had needed.  She had always intended on finding a larger store to do her grocery shopping at, but had always found herself coming back to Vinh.  As time went on, he learned her favourite things and made certain he always had them in stock.

Darcy blinks away tears, remembering how Vinh had always kept supplies of the sweets the local children liked the best, had always managed to sneak some into their parent’s shopping.  There had always been a sadness in his eyes when the kids had come into the store, and she had never known why.  Before the city fell, he had never spoken of his family, his lost children.

_Vinh is dead._

After the city had fallen, Vinh had immediately retreated to his shelter, rationed the stocks he had.  Made sure that everything was supplied as evenly and fairly as possible.  Even if he went hungry himself.  

Vinh, who had been sick the whole time, unknown to anyone.

Who had kept that box of food aside for Darcy.  Waited for her to return.

And only Hel had come.

Darcy barely notices the doctor and his assistant come into the apartment.  Doesn’t feel the thermometer, the blood pressure cuff, the sting of the needle taking blood samples.  She doesn’t feel anything but that drowning blackness until Dr Glenn stabs the index finger of her left hand.

“Can you feel that?” the doctor asks over his speaker.

“Ow.”  Darcy holds up her hand.  A bead of blood is welling from her finger, bright red.  “That means yes.”

“Interesting.”  The doctor makes notes on a clipboard held by his assistant.

Darcy rubs the blood from her finger.  The wound the doctor made is already starting to heal.  She looks at her other hand, and goes cold.

Her right arm is covered almost entirely by the black patterns of Hel’s touch.  Her fingers and nails are entirely black.  The claw marks on her wrist have opened again, the black substance the wounds weep thick and black as tar.  More black oozes from the tip of each finger and thumb, presumably where Dr Glenn has already pricked her.

She can feel none of it.  Past numbness, it feels as though her arm has simply ceased to exist.  She’s able to move her arm, her hand, but it feels as though she’s working a puppet, something belonging to someone else.

She squeezes her fist tight, and black oozes out onto the sheets, her scrubs.  She remembers Beth, Ravi and Max, all of the other shadow people.  Covered by Hel’s blackness, they must feel as though they’re not there at all.

Dr Glenn finishes his notes, turns back to Darcy.  The instruments he’s using is considerably larger than a pin.  It looks something like a skewer, bright silver and cold.  He pricks Darcy’s left arm in a succession of quick stabs.  “And this?”

“You didn’t even-“  Darcy breaks off mid-sentence.  She was about to say that the doctor hadn’t even touched her skin, but she can see that he did.

There are five spots of black blooming on her left arm, small as freckles but beginning to spiral out into the surrounding skin.  Their pattern looks as though someone has grasped her arm and left inky fingerprints on her skin. All are oozing thick black.

Dr Glenn stabs again, this time aiming for an unmarked part of Darcy’s skin.  Bright pain flares, and red blood wells.

“Hm.”  The doctor makes more notes.  “Wash and bandage both arms immediately.  Bots will come to change the sheets.  Daily, I think.  We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

They leave Darcy alone.  Ignoring the doctor’s instructions, she curls up on her side, slides her blackened arm beneath the blankets.  At least if she can’t see the black, can’t feel her arm, she can pretend that it’s not there.  Even the thought that her arm had been lopped off at the shoulder is more welcome than the reality.

“Vinh is dead,” she whispers into her pillow.  “Beth, Ravi, Max and who knows how many others are as good as dead.”  She swallows hard.  “I am dying.”

The last thought stabs through her.  When she glances down, she half expects to see a physical wound on her chest, but the skin there is clear.  As yet clear, anyway.  Given time, she’s certain that it will blacken, that she will become ash, as Vinh did.

She worries at the stab wounds on her unmarked fingers until red blood flows again.  The smell of copper rises, but it isn’t enough to counter the thick rot of the black.

“I am dying.”  She says the words slowly, tasting their shape.  “I’m dying.  And it’s all my fault.  All of this is my fault.”

A thin whine answers her.

She rolls over, sees a spindly bot waiting by the side of the bed.  It holds a pallet of fresh blankets and sheets.

Darcy flops back onto her pillow.  “It’s okay for you.  You don’t bleed.  You can’t die.”

“Well, technically-“ the bot says.

Darcy bolts upright.  “Did you just talk?” she asks the bot.  “Or am I just going crazier than usual?”

The bot sets down its pallet of blankets and sheets, spins around.  A small device has been taped to its back.  It looks very much like the device that Jane wore to disrupt security, except this one has a small speaker attached.

“I’m not qualified to judge on the crazy,” the voice coming out of the speaker says.  “Or maybe I am, given who I work with.”

It takes Darcy a moment to place the voice.  “Pepper?” she asks.  “Ms Potts. I mean.”

“Pepper’s fine.”  Darcy can almost hear the smile in Pepper’s voice.  “Remove the device from the back of the bot, and hide it in your pocket.  It will scramble the audio feeds from your apartment, but not the visual, so keep it as hidden as you can.  Go about your usual routine as much as you can.  You can talk, but keep it short.  Look as though you’re just talking to yourself.”

Darcy slides out of bed, kneels down to put on her slippers.  Moving as quickly as she can, she untapes the device from the bot and puts it into her pocket.  The bot whines again, and begins its work of stripping the bed.  When Darcy stands again, her legs are trembling.

“Why not scramble everything, the way Jane did?” Darcy asks.  A sudden, horrifying, thought occurs to her.  “Is Jane okay?”

“Jane’s fine,” Pepper’s voice says from her pocket.  “She’s confined to her lab.  They discovered that she visited you, so they’re watching her too closely for her to leave again.  She’s at work trying to find a way past the barrier over the city.  Hoping to get word to Asgard.”  Pepper pauses.  “I wanted to come and see you as well, but they confined me to my quarters as well.”

“Who’s they?”  Darcy asks.  She goes through into the wardrobe, selects a new robe and set of scrubs.  She holds them carefully as she goes into the bathroom, trying not to get either red or black blood on them.

“I wish I knew,” Pepper says.  “As best as I can tell, someone has been working at infiltrating Stark Tower since the battle of New York.  They’ve managed to keep us on automatic lockdown, with all of the regular staff confined to quarters.  Even J.A.R.V.I.S. appears to being showing signs of being compromised now, so we can’t even trust him.”

Darcy turns on the shower, fiddles with the temperature.  “Can’t Stark figure it out?”

Pepper pauses for far too long before answering.  “Tony went out a few days ago to investigate whatever the hell is happening out there.  Natasha and Clint went with him.  None of them returned, and we haven’t been able to get in contact with them.”

Pepper’s words rattle through Darcy’s bones.  She moves automatically, shucking her clothing - transferring the device and Frigga’s ring to the pocket of the new robe in the process of taking the dirty clothes to the hamper - and stepping into the shower.

It’s all to easy to imagine Stark, Black Widow and Hawkeye dead.  Or worse, infected by Hel’s blackness, just three more shadow people arrayed around the tree in Central Park.

Pepper is silent again as Darcy scrubs her skin and hair.  Darcy realises in that silence that she’s been waiting, expecting the Avengers to just turn up and save the world all over again.  They saved New York from the Chitauri attack, and even while the world was falling apart, they had still been fighting.

There was no one to save them now.  And despite Jane’s best work, Darcy knew also that Asgard was not coming, either.  They are on their own.

Darcy turns off the shower, rubbing her skin hard to dry herself.  The places Dr Glenn pricked on her unmarked skin have clotted already, but the black places are still slowly seeping black.

“What can I do?” Darcy asks as she disinfects the wounds, wraps them in gauze as best as she can.  “What can any of us do, locked up in here?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Pepper says.  Her voice sounds fainter now, as though the connection is dying.  “I just wanted to let you know that you’re not alone, Darcy.  And I seriously regret what’s been done to you.  I tried to stop it, but there was nothing I could do.”  She pauses, static rising and falling.  “Is there anything you know?”

It clicks together then.  _Loki_.  It all comes back to Loki.  “I know that Loki has _nothing_ to do with what’s happening out there.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“As certain as I am that I’m dying.”

Another, longer pause.  “Anything else?”

“I know who you could start looking at.  Daniel Blackwood.”

“Blackwood?”  Pepper pauses again, presumably to look Blackwood up.  “But he’s…no one.”

“Those are the ones you have to be wary of.”

“It’s a start, anyway.  Thank you, Darcy.”  Static bursts across the speaker.  “We’re reaching the end of the window.  I’ll do what I can to help you, send another device if I can.  Wrap up this one and toss it in with the biohazardous waste.  It will go straight to the incinerator.”

Another burst of static, and the connection dies.  Darcy works quickly to wrap the device in gauze and toss it into the biohazardous waste.  She hopes that Pepper’s right, and that no one actually bothers to pick through the waste before it goes to the incinerator.  Though, as she throws the package in, she doubts that anyone would want to deal with the _smell_ of the used bandages.

“And now I’ve had that lovely thought, I’m guessing it’s time for breakfast,” she says to herself as she moves back through the apartment.  “Which I’m guessing is more rations.  Yum yum.”

She’s not hungry - and in realising that, she realises also that it’s been a long time since she actually was hungry at all - but she makes herself eat.  Halfway through the meal, her stomach twists, and she has to rush to the bathroom to bring back up the food that she ate.  It hasn’t digested at all, a fact which just makes her heave again.  This time she brings up bile, and a mouthful of black, clotted blood.

Her heart lurches at that, and she flushes the toilet quickly.  Had Hel marked her inside as well as out?

She can’t face the rest of the food.  And when a bot comes with her lunch and some painkillers, she only takes the pills, ignores the food.  She doesn’t have any overt pain, but she figures that maybe they’ll do something.

She spends several hours of her afternoon in the charade of reading and watching television.  Finds herself turning time and time again to the window, staring out at the world outside.  The sky has not lightened, the sky remaining the flat grey of damp concrete.  The tree lights everything with the pallid illumination of a complete solar eclipse.  It makes everything feel like a dream, as though Darcy is only half awake.

She runs her hand down her blackened arm, still numb.  She supposes that she _is_ only half awake.  Half alive.  Half dead.

 

#

 

When the curtains finally close in the apartment, Darcy is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall where the door opens onto Loki’s rooms.  She knows that there’s no physical connection there, but it’s comforting to sit there, all the same.  The television is still flickering, though she hasn’t even been pretending to watch it for the last few hours.

All she’s been able to do is sit and stare out of the window.  Stare at the tree.

Reaching back into the memories of the Norse mythology books she read after Thor, she’s decided that she’ll call the tree Yggdrasil.  It seems to make a kind of sense.  Hel’s realm was just one of the places connected by Yggdrasil, after all.

When the curtains cut off her view of the outside world, she stands slowly.  The room reels around her, forcing her to lean heavily against the wall until she regains her balance.  She hasn’t been able to keep any food or water down all day, and a part of her mind notes clinically that she’s probably seriously dehydrated by now, with that and the continuing blood loss.  Assuming the black stuff is actually affecting her blood volume.  She can’t find it in her to care right now.

She briefly considers just pulling the curtains aside so she can watch Yggdrasil more, but she remembers that she needs to be acting normal.

“Whatever normal is, anymore,” she says.

She can still feel Yggdrasil, a weight in her mind the way Loki had been in his cell.  Yggdrasil is heavier, reminding her of a diagram some hapless high school physics teacher had endeavoured to get his students - Darcy included - interested in.  If she closes her eyes, she can see that diagram now as vividly as though the book was open before her.  Space as a flat black sheet inscribed with pale green grid.  In the centre, a bowling ball represented a black hole.  The artist had depicted the ball in the act of tearing through the sheet of space, warping the grid around it.

“It’s going to rip through everything,” Darcy says absently as she walks down the hallway.  She teeters from side to side as she walks, as though she’s crossing the listing deck of a boat, crashing into one wall, then the other, over and over.  “And everything’s going to go dark.  Midgard, Asgard, every realm will be hers.”

She goes through her bedtime ablutions.  The face that looks out at hers from behind the mirror is paper white, skin hanging loose on her bones.  There’s a darkness crawling up the side of her neck; she doesn’t look closely enough to see if its a shadow or Hel’s black curlicues.

The plastic-covered mattress of her hospital bed crinkles as she slides beneath the covers.  She lies there, staring at the ceiling, lights flickering and flaring behind her eyes in spiralling patterns.  Belatedly, she remembers the ring, slips her hand into her pocket and slides it on.

Pain, steel-bright and bone-deep, claws at her right arm.  Five more points of agony stab into her left arm, shattering her lethargy.

Looking down, she sees the shadow of fingers clutching at her left arm, fingers exactly aligned on the black points.  As the shadow fingers press harder, the curlicues spiral out into the surrounding flesh.

The fingers clutch hard, and they _pull_.

Darcy tumbles off the bed, staggers towards a direction that she recognises, in the midst of agony, as heading towards Yggdrasil.  A kind of music rises in the darkness of her mind: spiralling, tumbling notes in a cacophony of something broken that had once, perhaps, been human voices.

She feels a hundred - no, a thousand - people turn towards her.  They are arrayed in a vast spiral around the tree, all of them Hel-black.  All of them waiting.

All of them waiting for Darcy.

She stumbles another half dozen steps towards the window.

_Darcy.  You must fight._

Loki’s voice in her mind, breaking through the dark fug of Hel’s influence.  Just for a moment, before Hel grasps harder at Darcy’s arm, pulls harder.

_Darcy, please.  To me._

Panic flares in Darcy, and she fights against Hel’s grasp.  She has a glimpse of her sleeping body, the black definitely creeping up her neck, curling up to her jawline now, and then she is running back down the hallway, Hel’s fingers sliding against her skin, seeking fresh purchase.

The door leading to Loki’s rooms is already open.  It is the right way around now, Loki standing directly on the other side.  When he sees her, his faze freezes, but not quickly enough for her to miss the fear there.  Nor the bloodshot whites of his eyes, the chewed skin of his lips.

Darcy is two steps from the door when Hel gains purchase again.  Digs in, seemingly down to Darcy’s bones, her claws sliding into the soft marrow.

Hel _pulls_ again, and Darcy stumbles back, halfway across the room.

Loki presses himself closer against the doorway.  His eyes are dark, and his skin is flickering between his Asgardian and Jotun forms, as though he is trying to decide which form of magic to use.

She’s not going to make it.

Hel laughs, a sound like the grate of stone against broken stone.  Her fingers solidify against Darcy’s skin, the rest of her form shimmering into view.  She is grinning, revealing broken teeth.  She knows that she has won.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says to Loki.  “I’m sorry.”

And then Loki steps out of the doorway.

“No,” Darcy says.  “No, go back!  Just let her take me!”

Loki shakes his head, takes another step.  Midway through the movement, he shifts his appearance.  His linen shirt and trousers morph into his full Asgardian armour, complete with his horned helmet.  Cold bleeds from him, and Darcy knows that he’s ready to use his Jotun magic as well if needed.

Loki walks slowly across the room to where Hel holds Darcy.  Hel’s snarling now, lips drawn back from her teeth, and her fingers really are digging into Darcy’s arm, nails breaking through muscle and sinew, scraping bone.

Hel is pulling Darcy faster and faster, but Loki doesn’t increase his pace, just keeps walking that measured pace across the room.

Everything happens at once then.

Hel’s fingers close, her nails shattering Darcy’s humerus, pressing deep into the marrow.  And she pulls Darcy towards the window, her other hand flinging out and shattering the supposedly shatter-proof glass.

And Darcy is falling, Hel’s hand around her broken arm.  And though she knows that objectively Loki was too far away to reach them, he is there suddenly, his hands closing gently around Darcy’s shoulders.

Cold shimmers over Darcy’s skin.  She gasps at the chill, and when she exhales, she breathes out white mist.  Hel’s fingers loosen and fall away, and Loki lifts Darcy back into the apartment, his boots crunching over broken glass.

Somewhere sirens are wailing, but Darcy barely notices.  Loki’s hands are moving over her broken arm, cold shimmering out again.  She screams, because it _hurts_ as her bone and muscle knit back together.  Loki is breathing heavily as he lifts her, gathers her into his chest.

The security cameras blink their red lights as he crosses the room, Darcy in his arms, and steps through the door into his rooms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	26. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who's following on with this story. You guys are all awesome.
> 
> I can't think of anything to say for this chapter and the next. Just brace yourself for feels. And know that a happy ending is coming. Eventually.

Darcy and Loki collapse through the doorway.

Darcy watches the doorway fade into a starfield of green light against black, then vanish completely, leaving only smooth, clear wall.  Only then does she allow herself to relax against Loki.  His body is held tense, one arm wrapped, defensive, around her body.  His other hand is wrapped gently around the arm that Hel broke.

She looks down.  Beneath his fingers, black bruises bloom around her elbow, the skin swollen in places where blood has clotted thick beneath the skin.  Her skin itself looks fragile, the tracery of veins too vivid, her pulse beating too hard.  

She remembers Hel’s fingers digging deep into her marrow, splintering bone, and winces.

“Can she…can she get us here?” Darcy asks, looking up at the wall again.  It is apparently whole, inviolable.  “Like before.”

Loki’s arm tightens around her, a living shield, though when he speaks, his voice is even.  “I have strengthened the boundaries of this place.  Taken it further aside from the physical plane of Midgard.  Hel cannot reach us here.”

“What about when I go back?”

Loki turns her to face him.  The purple bruises around his eye sockets intensify the green of his irises.  “I will ensure your safety, Darcy.  If it is the last thing I do.”

She shifts her weight slightly; Loki does not loosen his grip around her body, though he does take his hand away from her arm.  His fingers whisper over the bruised skin.  “I have healed what I can.  It will be fragile for a time, but it should hold.  So long as you don’t go flinging yourself out of any more windows.”

“I seem to recall that I didn’t actually volunteer for any defenestration,” Darcy says dryly.

“Why do you Midgardians have a word for that?” Loki asks.  “It is a strange thing.”

“So is having someone poke their nails into your _bone marrow_ ,” Darcy says.  She pokes her arm.  It feels sore, like the kind of tenderness you get after a long bout with fever.  The black marks are still there, each one spiralling more than inch into the surrounding skin.  Sickness twists in her stomach.  “I see you got my doorway turned the right way up at least.”

Loki pulls himself to his feet, helps Darcy up.  His movements are hesitant, and she wonders how much energy he’s been burning over the last day.  Too much, by the look of him.

“I did consider leaving it,” he says, leading the way into the main room.  The fire is burning low, barely more than glowing coals, and it is _cold_.  “A little mark of Darcy, if you like.  The refinements I was forced to make did not allow for such a…quirk, however.”

He collapses into one of the chairs by the fire.  His skin is damp, and his breath comes fast and shallow.  

Darcy sits down opposite him.  “You should have just left my arm,” she says.  “You’re pushing yourself too much.”

“The injuries inflicted by Hel affected your physical body, also.  And you have not the resources to fight her.  It is possible that you would not wake.”

He delivers the words with something almost like indifference, his eyes on the embers in the fireplace.  But Darcy sees the tightness in the muscles of his shoulders, the way his fingers are held tight as claws.

“The cameras will have seen you, won’t they?” Darcy asks softly.  “Even though this is a projection, they’ll have seen you.”

“Perhaps no one was watching,” Loki says, though there is no conviction in his words.

“With Hel smashing supposedly shatterproof glass, I think _everyone_ will have been watching.”  Darcy pulls her legs up to her chest, laces her hands around her knees.  “And even if no one was, there’s always J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“Stark’s sentient servant?”

Darcy chokes back a laugh.  “Oh, I’d love to see you tell Tony that one.  Stark is missing.  Pepper and Jane are both confined to their quarters.  Pepper thinks that even J.A.R.V.I.S. has been compromised.”

Loki’s lips press into a line, that crease forming between his eyebrows as he thinks.

“So, won’t they be beating down the walls of your cell right now?” Darcy asks.  “Blackwood seemed extremely eager to test out his toys on you, find out if you’re actually immortal.”

“Asgardians are not immortal,” Loki says, almost absently.  His eyes are still on the embers, orange light flickering in his pupils.  “Merely long-lived in comparison to Midgardians.”

“That’s great and all, but shouldn’t we be _doing_ something?” Darcy asks.  “Your physical body dies, and so does the projection, right?”

“One of the modifications I made essentially takes this place out of the Midgardian time stream.  We have stepped aside from it.”

Darcy blinks.  “So the world’s on pause?”

“I suppose that is a way to term it.”

“And as soon as I step back through there, bam, everything starts up again?  What good is that?”

Loki’s eyes shift back to her.  His pupils are dilated.  “It gives us time.”

“So we party while the world is ending?”  Darcy stands, begins stalking back and forth across the room.  “What fucking good does that do?  The world still ends, Hel still wins.  You…you still die.”

“I assure you, my flesh will not die quite as easily as Daniel Blackwood hopes,” Loki says, watching her.  “I am somewhat more stubborn.”

“So I die.  And what’s the fucking point?  Why are we even _here_ when we should be out there doing something?”  Darcy realises that she’s weeping now, tears streaming down her face, freezing into tiny icicles that make cold music when they fall onto the floor.  “People are dying.  Innocent people are dying because of me.  Because I was too weak to carry a bit of bullshit pain with me.  People live through wars, through living nightmares, and they keep going.  And the first chance I get, I just hand it all over to the fucking goddess of death.”

Her legs give way suddenly, and she crumples to the floor between the two chairs.  She lets herself fall, curls up in a foetal position.  She’s still crying, but the tears remain liquid now, the room suddenly warmer as the fire flares into life.

“We make choices to avoid pain,” Loki says.  He comes and lies down behind her, curving his body against hers.  Gently moves her hair aside so he can kiss the back of her neck; continues talking with his lips against her skin.  “In every moment, we endeavour to do what we think is best, using the tools that we have at our disposal.  Once, I sought to save the realm I was born to from what I considered a foolish king, and began a series of events which only created more pain for everyone.  Myself, more than anyone else.  You sought to be free of a burden that had held you confined all of your life.  It is natural.  It is human.”

“It is weak,” Darcy says.  “Jane wouldn’t have done it.  Pepper, either.  Black Widow would have kicked Hel in the nuts.  Metaphorical nuts, anyway.  Everyone else fights.”

“Not everyone is a warrior, Darcy.”

Darcy pulls away from him, sits up again, arms locked around her legs again.  Her mind is whirling.  She wipes away her tears, scrubs her hands dry on her shirt.  “How much magic do you still have?  Like, what can you actually do?”

“In the bounds of these rooms, mostly illusions.”  Loki unfurls his fingers, and three crystal spheres are balanced on his fingers.  He spins them easily for a moment, and then lets them dissolve into a shower of light.  

“But you had enough magic to change the boundaries.  To change the way time moves here.”

“That was…unexpectedly easy.  My mother left me doorways, windows.  Half finished things that only took a twist, a slight change.”

Darcy rubs her fingers together.  Here, her blackened hand has some feeling, as though only the very surface of her skin is numb.  “Frigga said that she gave you windows in the cell, too.  _Windows_.  More than one.  Maybe she left you something there, too.”

Loki is on his feet immediately, forcing Darcy to scramble to catch up to him.  He moves with energy and purpose, and Darcy thinks that another person would assume that he was recovered.  She glances at him as he walks, sees the blueish pallor to his skin, and knows that he is simply burning more of himself.  Burning down to the bone.  

Loki presses his hands against the wall.  Green light flares from his fingers, and the doorway appears.  It flickers into life in the same fashion as the other door had faded, cycling through the green starfield before forming completely.

Darcy turns away.  She doesn’t want to see that cell again.  She knows that she has to.

She turns around slowly.  Loki is standing to one side of the doorway.  His face is set, the muscles in his jaw tight.

Darcy approaches the doorway slowly, stretches out the moments until she has to see what lies beyond.

Loki’s physical body is still curled in the corner, in exactly the same position that it had been the last time she had seen it.  The cell is still destroyed around him.

The ice and snow have gone.  Instead, the ceiling glows with dull red light, the air filled with enough heat shimmer that she knows that the heat from the ceiling is intense.  

An image rises unbidden in her mind.  A photograph she saw once, of Hiroshima after the bomb was dropped.  The silhouette of a person burned forever onto a wall.  The heat from the nuclear explosion so intense that it blasted the person to ash, but left their shadow etched forever on the world.

She looks closer at the metal frame of the privacy screen.  Sees where the metal has softened and bent, a single silver droplet beading on the lowest point.

She’s shaking as she moves across the doorway so she can see the transparent wall of the cell.  Knows who she will see there before she sets eyes on him.

Daniel Blackwood.

The floor beneath his mirror-shined shoes is still black with her dried blood.  He does not appear to notice, his attention on the tablet in his hands, his fingers on the screen presumably controlling his torture device.  In contrast to the heat, he looks cool and calm, dressed in a tailored suit the equal of any Tony Stark might wear, his hair slicked back from his face.

Darcy’s skin crawls, that feeling of something creeping beneath her Hel-blackened flesh intensifying as she looks into Blackwood’s eyes.

“How do you torture a frost giant?” she asks softly.  “With heat.”  She turns to Loki, who is standing now with his back pressed against the wall, his hands fisted by his sides.  “How does he know to use heat?”

“A lucky guess, perhaps.”

Darcy rubs at her right arm.  The skin feels loose, as though it will slough away from her bones.  “A very lucky guess.”

“There is something about Blackwood,” Loki says.  “Something I cannot unravel without confronting him in the flesh.”

“And as soon as you step through that door, you return to your physical body.  And…”  Darcy’s stomach twists, and she cannot finish the sentence.

“My body can withstand heat,” Loki says.  His voice is flat, but his hands are moving over his body, fingers pressing against his ribs, touching his teeth, his temples.  “I do not wish to repeat the experience, however.”  He blinks, focuses on his hands.  Fists them again by his sides.  “You see, you are not the only one who avoids pain.”

“So you can’t go back there.  And as soon as I go back through the other doorway, Hel gets me.  And I suspect she’s going to be pretty pissed off.” Darcy moves back from the doorway.  “So what do we do?  What _can_ we do?”

“We use the weapons we have at our disposal.”  Loki waves a hand, and the doorway fades.  “The tools my mother left.  What magic I have.  Our minds.”

“If we’re relying on my mind, the world is screwed.”  Darcy grins; the expression feels brittle.

“You tased my brother once.  There are few who can claim to have bested Thor.”

“Anyone could have done it.  And it would be great, if I had a taser, at least.”  She pauses.  “Wait, can you make me a magic taser?  Some kind of Asgardian version?”

Some of the tension fades from Loki, and he begins to smile.  “Darcy Lewis, you may just be a genius.”

 

#

 

Darcy pulls the linen shirt over her head, rolls up the sleeves.  The fabric is soft, and smells faintly of clean sunshine.  Her skin is still damp from her bath, and the shirt clings to her hips and breasts.  She doesn’t care, because she’s clean and the shirt is clean.  And more importantly, the shirt is not a set of scrubs.

She kicks the scrubs she discarded on the floor, just for good measure.  Wonders briefly if she should toss them into the fire.  Decides that they’re so horrible that they probably would even burn, settles for kicking them again.

The shirt is one of Loki’s, an open-necked tunic that she lifted from his wardrobe.  Also in the wardrobe was a rack of gowns in what she assumes is an Asgardian style.  Lots of velvet and silk, embroidery and what looked suspiciously like real jewels.  All of them in Loki’s colours - greens, gold and black - and all looking to be perfectly her size.  Darcy had considered them briefly before turning and choosing Loki’s shirt instead.  

Loki has been working at the long bench in the main room for long enough for the clock he conjured to spin through a full revolution of its thirteen hours, and begin again.  Earlier, he had conjured food, ostensibly for both of them, but he had done little more than pick at some bread before settling to his work.  Darcy had eaten until she had felt stuffed, just because she could.  She didn’t know if the conjured food would actually provide any real nutrition, but it had tasted _good_.  

So, she had eaten, then napped for a while.  Finding Loki still working when she woke, she had poked through his library for a while.  Lots of what she presumed were Asgardian texts, more Midgardian texts in languages she only barely recognised.  A full, leather-bound set of Shakespeare, poetry, philosophy.  And tucked away in a corner, a set of hardcover Harry Potter books.  Darcy had smiled, then, trying to imagine Loki’s reaction to the boy wizard and his magic world.  She had attempted to read the first book for a while, but her attention kept wandering, and she had eventually set the book down, deciding to make use of his bath instead.  She had invited Loki to join her, but he hadn’t even looked up from his work.

She wanders back into the main room.  The long workbench is cluttered with instruments and components, all of which are completely unrecognisable to her.  Flashes of light come from Loki’s fingers as he manipulates a small object hovering before him.  The scent of ozone rises in the room, bright and sharp.  Despite the metal, leather and God-only-knows-what strewn about the bench, the object Loki is working on appears to be made entirely of white light.  It is around the size of an orange, its surface made from what looks like thousands of interlocking parts, all in constant motion.

Loki picks up what looks like a copper spiral no larger than his thumbnail, inserts it into the light sphere.  There’s a flash of emerald light, and the surface becomes more dense, writhes.

“I will be finished soon,” he says to Darcy without turning.  “You should rest.  Eat.”

“I have rested.  And unlike some people, I have eaten.”  She’s aware of the irritated edge in her voice as she speaks.  She’s never done well with being unoccupied.  Being useless.

Loki picks up a curved piece of gold, inserts it into the sphere.  This time, there’s a popping sound, and a curl of black smoke rises.  He mutters beneath his breath.

“I get it,” Darcy says.  “Making myself scarce pronto.”

He turns then.  Blinks once, then twice.  “There are gowns for you in the wardrobe, you know.”

Darcy twitches the hem of the shirt, deliberately raising it up several inches.  “Not really a gown kind of girl.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in something that suspiciously resembles a suppressed smile.

“It’s okay,” Darcy says.  She drops a quick kiss on Loki’s forehead.  “Let me know when you’re finished.”

She pours two goblets of wine, sets one down near Loki, takes the other through into the antechamber.  She settles into a corner of the windowsill with her wine, her legs folded beneath her, and watches the facsimile of Asgard outside.  She watches for long enough that she realises that the scene is actually a long repeating loop.  It’s long enough that most people wouldn’t realise, though she suspects that Loki would probably have known within a few seconds.  Then again, Loki can probably see the skein of magic used to make the scene in the first place.

She drinks her wine slowly, watches Asgard.  After a while, it becomes soothing, knowing that the scene was going to repeat.  Knowing what tiny changes were going to happen before they do.  The world reduced to predicability.

She’s half asleep when Loki finally appears.  He’s holding his goblet of wine - still full, or newly filled - and his skin is leaning towards that bluish pallor again, but there is satisfaction in his eyes.

“Magic taser?” Darcy asks.

“Complete as it can be without testing.”  Loki settles into the window opposite her, stretches his legs out.

“You can’t test it here?”

“It is designed for a single use only.”  He gazes out at Asgard, his eyes far away.

“As long as it blasts Hel to smithereens, I’m all good with it.”

He smiles grimly.  “It will return her to her realm, seal the breach made into Midgard.  Release those bound by her.”

Darcy runs her hand lightly across her blackened arm.  The feeling has been bleeding back into her skin the longer she’s been here, protected from Hel’s influence.  “Am I going to be left with some gnarly scars after this?  Or will my arm like fall off or something?”

Loki looks puzzled.  “Gnarly?”

“Gross. Horrible.  Ugly.”

He reaches out and trails his fingers up her arm, skips up to the side of her neck.  Coolness follows his touch, and feeling returns completely to her skin.  “You could never be anything of the kind.”

Darcy can’t help herself.  She pulls the most twistest, ugliest face she can manage, one that had even impressed her brothers when they were young.  To her delight, Loki grins, and then laughs, almost falling off the windowsill in a display of gracelessness that she can only attribute to his tiredness.  Darcy grabs his arm and prevents him from falling.

“I think _you_ need to rest now,” she says.  She makes another face, this one involuntary.  “And I think you should make use of the tub.  I don’t know what you put into the magic taser, but it smells like ass.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “Are you ordering me, Ms Lewis?”

She grins.  “ I am.”

“Well, then.”  He half-falls, half-tumbles off the windowsill, falls into a low bow.  “If my lady commands.”

He dodges the kick Darcy aims at him.  Just barely.

 

#

 

Darcy pauses in the doorway of the bathroom.  Smiles to herself.

Loki is stretched out full length in the tub, which has shifted shape again so that he rests in shallower water.  His head is cradled against a folded towel, his damp hair trailing water onto the cotton.  Next to the towel, the remnants of the fruit, bread and wine she made him eat earlier.  His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and he is snoring lightly.  Darcy is tempted to just leave him there, he’s so exhausted, but she knows that she has to wake him up and get him into bed, at least.

She kneels down, shakes his shoulder lightly.  He is immediately awake, his hand tight around her wrist, his other arm up in a defensive posture.  As soon as he sees that its Darcy, he relaxes, smiles.

“You fell asleep,” she says.  “And I don’t know about you, but I know that I’d rather sleep in a bed than a bathtub.”

“I can think of better things to do in a bed than sleep,” Loki says.

She doesn’t even have time to react before his arms close around her, pull her into the water.  He magics the tub at the same time, the water now deep enough for them both.  Darcy makes a noise of mock protest, splashes him, and is rewarded by his laughter.  The tension seems gone from him suddenly, the weight that had always dragged him down gone.

Loki lifts Darcy from the tub, peels the now-wet shirt from her, kissing the curve of her hip, the swell of her stomach, between her breasts.  He pulls the shirt over her head, and they stand before each other, naked.  They stand far enough away that none of their skin touches.  Darcy looks up at Loki, feeling almost shy, and the look in his eyes sets her heart racing.

He lifts a hand, cups her cheek.  His fingers are trembling, and she knows that his heart is beating as fast as her own.  She lifts her own hand to cover his.  For a long moment they stand like that, just seeing and be seen, then Darcy raises herself up on her toes, presses her lips to his.  He kisses her back lightly, and then his lips curve against hers.

“I believe,” he says, drawing back from her slightly.  “I believe that this time, you were the be the one in control.”

The sheer need in his voice sends an unexpected bolt through her.  In those words, so much: a willingness to trust, a longing to be cherished.  To be loved.

She curls her fingers around his hand, turns her head so she can press her lips to his palm.  “This isn’t going to be all whips and chains is it?”

There’s a twinkle of mischief in his eyes when he answers.  “It is whatever you wish it to be, my Lady.”

“Oh.”  Of course, he can magic anything she wants.  Her throat is suddenly dry.  “I don’t really know how to do any of…this.”

“I believe our previous nights would make a lie of that statement,” Loki says.

Darcy feels herself flush.  Remembers Loki’s reaction when she had curled her fingers into his hair and pulled.  “So, you do what I say, then?”

He kisses her knuckles gently, then steps back, drops into a bow.  Manages somehow to breathe out in the midst of the action, cool air sliding between her thighs.  Her _naked_ thighs.  Somehow Loki naked still manages to look regal, as though he’s clothed (or unclothed) the correct way, and it is the rest of the clothed world is wrong.  Darcy always just feels awkward, as though she needs to be covered.

Loki pulls himself back up.  Drops her hand, lowers his own hands by his sides.  Waits, his eyes on her.

Darcy can’t help but flick a glance downwards.  Loki is _clearly_ enjoying this.  He doesn’t miss her glance, because when she looks back up, he quickly smooths a smile from his face.

“Um.”  Darcy shifts her weight from foot to foot.  Her hair, still wet from her dunking in the bath, drips cold water down her spine.   Loki’s hair is as wet, but beginning to dry into loose curls.  “We could both do with being dry, I guess?”

Loki quirks an eyebrow.  “Is that an order, my Lady?”

Darcy flicks another glance over him.  This time checking for that blueish pallor.  His skin seems a healthy enough colour - _Asgardian_ enough colour, she corrects herself, which means that he has enough energy to maintain that illusion, but she can still see where his body had burned muscle.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” she asks.  “You should probably be resting, you’ve been doing so much magic.  Not to mention being tortured.   And there’s kind of the whole end of the world queen of darkness thing happening.”

Loki blinks, a faintly confused look on his face.  “Everything outside these rooms is, essentially, frozen in time.  It waits.”

“And what about you?”

An echo of that old mask of bravado forms on his face.  “I hardly matter in - as you put it - the face of the ‘whole end of the world’ thing.”

“Do you still really believe that?”  Darcy closes the space between them, takes his face in her hands.  “Right now, you are the _only_ thing that matters.  And if my saying that isn’t enough, look around you.  Your mother made all of this for you because you matter so much to her.  Your brother would tear the universe apart to have you at his side, and happy.”

Loki looks away.  “He is not-“

“Thor is your _brother_.  He was raised as your brother and he loves you, and at the end of the day, that’s what matters.  Family isn’t only the people who happen to be related by blood to.”  _And sometimes it isn’t even that_ , a small voice whispers in her mind.

When Loki looks back at her, she sees that young version of him again, his features softer, not sharpened with pain.  “And you?”

Darcy looks into his eyes for a long time before she answers.  “You matter more to me than anything I have ever known.”

His arms close around her, his embrace so tight that it’s almost crushing.  He falls to his knees, presses his face into the upper swell of her breasts. She feels dampness against her skin and knows that he is weeping.  Says nothing, just holds him for as long as he needs.

When he pulls away, his eyes are dry.  He pulls himself to standing again, arms at his sides.  “I believe my Lady requires her hair to be dried?”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair.  It’s mostly dry now, though she winces when her fingers catch in a tangle.  “Maybe a comb?”

She expects him to hand her a comb, but instead he moves behind her, begins running his fingers through her hair.  His movements are slow and languid, and he pauses occasionally to rub his fingertips into her scalp.  He rubs rose-scented oil through the strands, and a coolness tingling over her skin tells her of the use of his magic to ease out the worst of the knots.  By the time he’s finished, she’s practically purring.

“Man, you want a full-time job?” she asks as he circles around in front of her again.

He falls into that bow again, doing that trick with his breath again, cool air sliding between her thighs.  This time, she feels a cool tingling sliding across the folds between her legs, too.

“Hey, cheating!” she says as he straightens.

He just raises an eyebrow.

Darcy chews her lip.  With the look in his eye, a whip is suddenly sounding like a mighty fine idea.  More, she _knows_ that he would like it.  _Maybe next time_ , she says to herself.  She doesn’t want this to be about pain, even welcome pain.

She realises that she’s thinking about next time as though it’s a solid and real thing.  Even with the chaos waiting outside these rooms, she trusts completely that Loki will save everything.  That things will be okay.

“I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

He inclines his head.  “As my Lady commands.”

Loki sweeps her up into his arms, carries her to the bed.  When he lowers her to the mattress, she feels rose petals between her skin and the silk coverlet.  The weight of her body crushes the petals, releasing their fragrance.

“Nice touch,” she says.  She grabs Loki’s wrist and pulls him down beside her.  “Better touch,” she adds as he stretched out beside her.

She rolls him over onto his back.  He moves easily beneath her touch, arches his throat up to her, eyes slitted.  His pulse is visible beneath his skin, beating the frantic tattoo of his heartbeat.  Darcy smiles to herself, then lifts his wrists, arranging his arms above his head, the way he had hers.  His breath catches in his throat, his pupils dilating.

“I think,” Darcy says, kneeling back and surveying her work.  His pale skin fairly glows against the emerald silk and deep red rose petals.  “I think that you need to keep your hands there until I say otherwise.”

He laces his fingers together, hard enough that his knuckles pale.

Darcy lets her gaze move down his body, amazed all over again at how damn beautiful he is.  Long and lean, and even with the loss of muscle, she can see the strength in his muscles.  He’s strong enough that he could overpower her easily, both physically and with magic.  And yet he’s here lying before her naked, willingly completely vulnerable to her.  Completely trusting.  That thought sends an unexpected surge of lust through her, starts a throbbing between her thighs.

“I think I’m thirsty.”  Darcy slides off the bed, makes a show of swaying her hips as she crosses the room.  “I think I need some more wine.”

As she walks through the doorway, she hears Loki make a sound deep in his throat, half moan, half sigh.  She smiles in satisfaction.

When she returns, goblet in hand, he hasn’t moved at all.  Only his eyes move, following her as she crosses the room again, climbs up onto the bed.

“I never used to like wine much,” she says, sipping.  “More of a beer girl.  But this is _good_.”  She drinks deeply; Loki licks his lips.  She tilts her head to the side.  “Would you like some?”

He nods, and she lifts up his head, holds the goblet so he can drink.  Deliberately tips the goblet a little too much, spilling the wine.  The dark red liquid flows down his chin, drips onto his neck and chest, pools in the hollow of his throat.

“Oops.”  Darcy sets the goblet aside, and, with a grin, begins to lick the wine from him.  She lingers on the place where his shoulder dips towards his collarbones, nips at his skin lightly.

She slides a hand down his side, fingers tracing the curve of his hipbone, moving to dance lightly over the plane of his stomach.  He’s started to shift restlessly beneath her touch, and she dips her fingers lower, almost but not quite touching dark curls.  He makes a small sound of frustration when she moves her hand higher again, and she smiles against his skin, returns to exploring him with her lips and tongue.  When she finds one of his nipples with her teeth, he gasps and arches beneath her.  She sits up, surveying the results of her work with a satisfied grin.  He is fully hard, a drop of precome already gleaming at the end of him.

Darcy can’t help herself.  She leans over, licks it away, tasting the salt of him.  His hips jerk, and she moves quickly away, making a show of licking her lips.

Loki has his fingers interlaced so tightly that his nails have paled to white, and his breathing is rapid and shallow.

Darcy briefly considers making another trip for wine or food, but she doesn’t know if she can make herself stop touching Loki right now.  There’s a headiness to this that she never imagined was possible, just knowing that she’s doing this to him, that just a few touches are enough to send him close to the edge.

She trails her hand down his hip again, continuing the long, light stroking down the outside of his thigh.  Slides her fingers inside his leg, trails them up slowly until she just brushes the edge of those dark curls again.  Locks her eyes with his, holding her hand there for a moment, then grins and skips over to his other leg, echoing the teasing he’d done to her.  He bites his lip hard, his pupils so wide now that she can barely see the green of his irises.

She repeats that teasing touch once, twice, then removes her hands.  Her eyes still on his, she lifts her hair off her neck and shoulders, arches her back.  His eyes move down, and damn if she doesn’t feel that almost as a physical touch as a cold tingling moving over her breasts, her stomach, dipping between her legs…

“Hey,” she says.  “I do believe that using magic is cheating.”

He just looks at her, a look of creamy satisfaction in his eyes, lips curving into a smirk.  The tingling between her thighs intensifies.

Darcy narrows her eyes.  Looks down, sees another drop of precome beading on the tip of him.  It’s her turn to smirk then, before she leans down, licks a long stripe down the length of him, closing her lips and sucking for a moment, swirling her tongue over the head of him before she pulls back.

The cold tingling is gone, leaving her with a deep ache inside her.  She says nothing, just arches an eyebrow at him.

Loki bares his teeth and _growls_ , a sound that goes straight to that ache between her legs.

There’s no thought, no finesse in what she does next.  She straddles him, but holds herself high enough that none of their skin actually touches.  Runs her hands up his sides, up his arms to where his hands are clenched.  Leans down and kisses him.

Loki kisses her back, hungrily, but surprisingly tender.  When she pulls back from the kiss, she can see tears gleaming in his eyes.

“I think-“  Her voice is husky, and she clears her throat before she continues.  “I think you can move your hands now.  If you want to.”

He immediately clasps the back of her neck, pulling her down into another kiss.  Darcy melts into it, presses her body against his.  His skin is warm, almost feverish.  The skin on skin contact is almost overwhelming, and Darcy finds her body moving automatically, her hips rocking back and forth against him, his hips thrusting up in a rhythm that seems almost desperate.

Darcy pulls back, lines him up with her, and sinks down, unable to hold back any more.  For a long moment, she just stays still, looking down at Loki’s face, feeling him inside her.  Feeling how well he fits inside her, how _right_ he feels.  Loki, in turn, moves his hands to her hips.  He rests his hands there lightly, but she can feel tension in him, as though he’s ready to grab her if she tries to go anywhere.

Darcy presses her forehead to his.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, his forehead creaking as if in pain.  A single tear drops from his lashes.

“Loki?  Are you okay?”  Darcy asks.  “Did I do something wrong?”

When he opens his eyes, she finds that she cannot read his expression.  Fear?  Worry?  Sorrow?  He gives her only a moment before he pushes himself up, keeping himself inside her.  When he is still again, he is seated, Darcy in his lap.  His hands return to her hips, resting there lightly again.

“At your command, my Lady,” he whispers, his eyes on hers.

Darcy slides her hands up his arms, absurdly grateful that she has feeling in her Hel-blackened skin.  If she doesn’t look at the marked places, she can almost pretend that her skin is untouched.  That the world isn’t ending outside of these rooms.

_It’s okay.  Loki’s going to fix everything.  His magic taser is going to blast Hel back where she belongs, and everything will be okay.  Better than its even been before._

She presses a light kiss to Loki’s forehead.  His skin tastes like salt and smoke.

Darcy begins to move.  Loki’s hands tighten on her hips, but otherwise he lets her set the pace, his own hips rocking in counterpoint to her own.  He says nothing, just looks at her, his eyes roaming over her face as though he wants to commit every contour and angle to memory.

Darcy moves faster and faster, her hands roaming over Loki’s shoulders, sliding into his hair.  She fists her fingers in his hair, pulls lightly, and is rewarded with a gasp, his hips rocking up hard into hers.  She does it again, and he moans, long and low, throws his head back and exposes his throat.  Darcy kisses the skin over his pulse, feels the rhythm of his heart against her lips.  She bites lightly, then harder, and rakes her fingernails down his back.

Loki loses control then, thrusting hard and fast into her.  Knowing that he’s close, Darcy slides her hand down between then, circles her clit.  It doesn’t take long before she comes apart.  Loki follows soon after, his groans of release vibrating down through her spine and bringing her a fresh wave of ecstasy.

Afterwards, he holds her for a long time, hands moving up and down her body, tracing the curves of her hips over and over, skimming her spine.  Darcy curls into him, enjoying the sensation of him softening inside her.  She presses her face into his neck, breathes deep of the scent that is him: musk and leather, a tang of bright ozone.  Her muscles are soft and loose, and she feels herself sliding slowly into sleep.

She’s aware of Loki lowering her to the bed, the scent of roses rising around them as he settles her weight.  Curves himself behind her, presses a kiss to the back of her neck as he wraps an arm around her body, pulls her close.  He murmurs something against her skin, his voice pitched too low for her to make out what he says, and then she is falling into a deep sleep.

 

#

 

Darcy is locked in a cell below the ground, everything white.

Darcy is burning.

Darcy is falling.

Darcy is listening to a man who is not her father tell her the truth of who she is.

Darcy is in a frozen land, watching as her skin turns blue.

Darcy is lost in shadows.

Darcy is.

Darcy is.

Darcy is not Darcy.

Darcy is Loki.

And Darcy is dreaming.

The series of images stops with that realisation, like a film that has been paused.

A moment of black, and then they begin again.  This series of images is different, drained of colour, more nebulous.  Darcy knows that these are things that have not happened yet.  Plans that have not yet become action.

Darcy is Loki.

Loki is waking, looking down at Darcy lying curled on the bed, her body still in the shape that had fit his own so perfectly.  Rose petals are tangled in her hair, and one of her hands is flung out, as though reaching for something.  Loki presses a kiss to the tips of his fingers, touches them gently to her lips.  

He dresses, donning his full Asgardian armour.  Weariness drags at him as he fumbles with straps and buckles, lifts the weight of his helmet onto his head.  It fells like donning an old, outgrown skin, too heavy and restrictive.

He longs to return to the bed, to spend forever just lying there in Darcy’s arms.  The longing is so great that he does not even allow himself a single glance at her as he moves past the bed and past into the main room.  He does not let himself look out at the illusion of Asgard.  If he looks, he will falter.  And he must not.  He cannot.

This is the price he must pay.

The sphere waits on the workbench.  It is calm now, its surface still.  When he touches it, emerald light flares, and the surface of the sphere begins to crawl, undulating and rotating.

He opens himself to the magic, and when he cups the sphere between his hands, it comes apart, the light liquifying.  It seeps into the pores of his skin, through his veins, his nerves, his bones.  Cold roils within him, the magic in constant motion, desiring only to be released, to be allowed to _become_.

A wave of his hand opens the doorway to his cell.  

He steps through.

Heat flashes across his skin as he reconnects with the part of himself that has been resident in the cell.  He pushes the sensation away even as he feels his skin blistering, a horribly familiar sensation.  He forces his flesh to hold together with sheer will.

Outside the cell, Blackwood.  One of his arms is raised slightly, the sleeve of his shirt pushed back.  From the angle Loki is at, he can see black crawling along the man’s skin.  So, Blackwood is another of Hel’s minions.

Loki wishes there were time to place his hands around the man’s neck, squeeze the life from him, make him pay.  The unstable magic within him does not allow him that luxury.  He turns his attention from Blackwood, searches the cell for the doorway that Frigga - that _his mother_ \- left him.  He finds it, and steps through, out of Stark Tower.

The world outside is dark, but for the tree.

As soon as Loki sees it, he knows it for a branch of Yggdrasil.  One stolen somehow from Asgard, corrupted by this goddess to form a twisted pathway between Helheim and Midgard, between death and life.  The magic within him hums, presses out against his skin.  He contains it, pain fracturing through him as the effort strains his blistered skin.

 _Just a moment longer_ , he says to the magic, speaking as calmly as though he were trying to soothe a fractious child.  An image blossoms in his mind unbidden: Darcy, holding a newborn babe, her face luminous as she smiles at him.  He pushes it away, focuses on the twisting thing inside him.  This is the only child he will ever have.  The only one he deserves to have.  _Just a moment more, and then you and I both will burn.  Together, we will return Hel to her realm, seal the breach.  And I will pay for what I have done._

Loki closes his eyes.  _I am sorry that I could not say goodbye, Darcy.  That I could not thank you for what you have done.  For what you have been.  I give you the only gift I can: freedom.  I do this for you, my love._

He opens his eyes, begins walking to where Hel is waiting.

 

#

 

Darcy awakes, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Beside her, Loki is sleeping deeply, his head pillowed on one arm.  His other arm is still wrapped loosely around her waist, fingers relaxed.  The images from her dream are still vivid in her mind.  More vivid than any dream she has ever had.

Except for the dreams which she previously shared with Loki.

She looks down at Loki.  His body is curved in the shape complementary to how hers had been in the dream.  Rose petals are tangled in his hair, and it is he who is reaching out.

And she knows that he, the God of Lies, has lied to her.  

The magic sphere is nothing like a taser.  It will not blast Hel back into her realm.

It is a bomb.  A bomb designed to be contained in human flesh, where is will be undetectable to the goddess of death.  That flesh will be sacrificed in order to heal the breach between worlds, to send Hel back to Helheim.

Loki is planning on being that flesh.

Loki is planning on sacrificing himself.

Darcy smooths Loki’s hair back from his face.  He is sleeping so deeply that he does not stir.

This, she knows, he did not plan on.  That he would be so exhausted, sleep so deeply that Darcy would wake before him.  He did not plan on their sharing a last dream.  He did not plan on Darcy knowing.

“Did you do this, Frigga?” Darcy asks the empty room.  “To save him?”  She runs her hand over her blackened arm.  The Hel-touched skin has grown numb again; she feels that numbness extending up to her jaw, curving over her shoulder and down her spine.  If it growing this quickly on her skin, how much time do any of the ones around the tree have?

Darcy kisses the tips of her fingers, presses them to Loki’s lips.  “None of this is your fault.  You’re not the one who brought Hel through.  You’re not the one who has to pay.”

She slides from the bed, pulls on the shirt that Loki discarded on the floor earlier.  She can smell him on her skin as she walks through the room to where the sphere waits.

She cups her hands around the sphere, opens herself the way Loki had in the dream.

The magic burns like fire against her blackened skin, and she grits her teeth as it sinks in, twists through her bones and flesh.  In Loki’s body, it had felt like a contained explosion, a star a moment before it goes supernova.  In her human flesh, it feels like liquid flame, searing her from within.  It batters at her from within, and she fears that she cannot contain it.  Then she thinks of Loki, of the desperate way he had made love to her, of everything he has already suffered, and she grits her teeth, _forces_ the magic to stay within her.

She walks through the rooms to the library.  Each step is like walking on smouldering coals.  The door appears as she approaches it, its edges flickering and uncertain.

Outside that door, Hel waits.  

Outside that door, her death waits.

“It’s my fault,” Darcy says.  “I’m the one who let Hel through.  I’m the one who has to pay.”

She steps through the doorway.


	27. Sacrifice II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the people who are following on and reading and commenting and leaving kudos. You guys are the best.
> 
> You might want to get some tissues ready for this chapter.

Everything seems to slow as Darcy steps through the doorway.

She can feel the magic that comprises the doorway itself: the golden warmth of Frigga’s magic soft against her skin, followed quickly by the prickling cold of Loki’s magic.  She can _see_ where he made changes to Frigga’s magic, emerald braided together with gold, the two married together to form something different, something stronger.

Here, and there, Darcy can even see the clumsy twists that she herself applies when she acted as the focus to form the doorway.  In her mind, they look something like the first stitches that a child makes when they learn to knit.  Thick and sapphire blue, they lack the elegance of the other magics, and looking at them, she isn’t surprised in the least that the doorway had manifested upside-down.

Her chest tightens when she looks closer at the clumsy sapphire stitches.  Sees that each one is surrounded by an intricate web of emerald.  Loki deliberately stabilised each of them when he changed the doorway.  Worked around them, preserved them.

The magic inside her tightens, as if in sympathy.  It rises like a tide, and she can hear it whispering in a thousand voices, all of them Loki’s.  The magic tells her the secrets of how Frigga created this portal, how Loki changed it.  And she knows that, with this magic in her, she could create a doorway of her own, just by channelling a little of it.

She could create a portal back to Loki.  She could design a whole world for them to live in, a world peopled with everyone they want, everything they need.  It would be an illusion at first, but soon they would forget.  They could live forever, if they wanted to.  Have a family.  Be together.  Be happy.

The magic twists again, searing like a brand against the inside of her skin.  Reminding her that it was created to be a weapon, to destroy, not to create.  She made her choice when she took it within herself, knew what she was doing.

Happiness, ever after, these things are no longer a choice for her.

There is only the fire waiting to burn.

She continues moving through the doorway, turns away from the gold and emerald and sapphire of the magic.  Hel will be waiting for her on the other side.  Darcy tries to brace herself for what will be coming.  Death is a certainty.  Pain is almost as certain.

She tells herself that she can handle anything.  Knows that she has to, if Loki is to be free.

_You are no one._

The voice rises from the cacophony of voices.  It speaks to her in the cadences of her own voice, but a younger Darcy, her words not yet edged with hardness, not yet armoured against the world.

_You are no one.  You are no one.  You are no one._

Darcy before the magic would have been confused.  The new Darcy - the one with liquid fire surging through her veins - knows immediately what the magic is telling her.

She siphons off a small amount of it.  Not enough to destabilise the magic’s centre, but enough for her needs.  Light bleeds from the lines in her palms; she cups her hands together and the light coalesces into a tiny ball of emerald light.  It rotates, its colour shifting to a deep sapphire.  It is cool against her blackened palm, warm against her other, untouched, hand.

Darcy allows herself a moment to gaze at the magic she holds.  _Her_ magic, shaped by her own will.  Then she releases it, lets it flow like water over her skin.  In the span of several heartbeats, it has covered her completely.  It sinks into her skin, and the black ripples away, her skin become featureless, white as marble.

“I am no one.”  Darcy holds up her hands.  The freckles and almost invisible hairs on the backs of her hands are gone.  When she turns her hands over, she sees that even the lines on her palms have vanished.  “I am no one, and Hel cannot see me.”

She smiles, and the magic within surges in warm approval.

When she steps through into her apartment, she tenses, but Hel does not appear.  

The only sound she can hear is the whistling of the wind through the still-broken window.  Outside, all she can see is the featureless grey of the sky.  Nothing in the room appears to have been disturbed.  Shards of broken glass still litter the carpet.  The television is still on, a romantic comedy that she cannot identify playing.

Her physical body is still lying in bed, apparently asleep.  Darcy’s heart clenches as she realises that her body is curved in exactly the right shape to occupy the negative space left by Loki’s body, her hand flung out, reaching.

She squeezes her eyes shut against tears, clenches her fists.  Fights the urge to run back to him.

It takes all of her will to stay there, to make herself reach out to her physical body.  A sapphire spark passes between her projection and flesh.  The magic flows over her body, her skin turning featureless white in its wake.  When it is finished, only her lashes, brows and hair retain colour, though even that is desaturated.

The magic rises again, and Darcy’s physical eyes open.  They are deep sapphire blue, a colour so vivid that it glows against the whiteness of her skin.  She looks nothing like herself.  She looks cold, powerful.

She looks like someone strong enough to defeat Hel.

The magic whispers to her, and she knows that it is time to return to her physical body.  She does so with another touch, slides back into physicality.  Bone and skin and blood pulls her down towards the earth, a smothering weight that sets her heart racing, adrenaline spiking through her.  The magic roils within, burning through her bones until she feels like they will melt inside of her.

She focuses on her breathing, on slowing her heart rate.  Just when she feels calmer, another wave comes.  This one is emotion: everything she has felt in the time in the Asgardian rooms with Loki.  It slams into her hard, and she is shaking: laughing and crying at the same time, her body shaking so hard that it rattles the frame of the hospital bed.

The magic twists and turns within her, and she realises that it is eating the emotions, burning them away to white the way it had burned away the black Hel marked on her skin.  When it is done, she feels hollow, cold, intent on only one thing: destroying Hel.

She slides her legs out of the bed, stands.  Wavers for a moment, her body weak, but the magic flows in, hardening her bones, her skin.  She’s still dressed in white scrubs, her feet bare.  It takes a thought only to reform her clothes, and then she is wearing something akin to Sif’s armour.  Breastplate and gauntlets of intricately engraved gold, black leather leggings and boots, the boots reinforced with gold plates.  Twin daggers at her hips, both in gold with what looks like malachite inlaid into the hilts.  Here and there are accents of silk: a sweep of fabric across her shoulders, the suggestion of a skirt around her hips.  All in Loki’s green.

She knows she needs none of the armour or weaponry, but it feels good, all the same.  It feels right.

She runs her hands over the hardened leather, the gold plate.  She’s still wearing Frigga’s ring, though the copper has dulled now, several strands of the outermost knotwork frayed and broken.  She can see the magic woven into the ring, knows she could repair it with a thought.  She runs her thumb over the metal, warmed from contact with her flesh.  She has no need for it now, other than as a reminder of why she is doing this.

Walking across the apartment, she feels strong, practically invincible.  A thought crosses her mind as her boots crunch over broken glass: is this what Loki feels like all the time?  Filled with magic, capable of anything and everything?  Even her eyesight is preternaturally sharp; she feels as though she can see the very molecules making up the glass beneath her feet.

Another, more distant thought: the wonder at how gentle he has always been with her.

The magic pushes that away, focuses her on Hel.  She moves to the edge, stands in the broken window.  The wind whips her braid across her back, pulls at her.  When she looks down there is no fear.  

In the distance, she can see the branch of Yggdrasil, glowing with its sickly light.

The magic whispers to her, and she knows what to do.

She steps out into the air.  The magic holds her up, lowers her gently down the side of Stark Tower.  If there are people in the levels she passes, she does not notice them.  Right now, they do not matter.  Nothing matters but Hel.

Her boots touch down soundlessly on the pavement.  Down here, everything is still.  There is no one to be seen, no sound at all.  Just the darkness of the sky, the darkness of the street.  

The magic whispers again, and she raises a hand, releases a measured burst of sapphire magic.  Watches it lift into the sky.

A sound like distant thunder, and a single shaft of light spears down, illuminates the street before Darcy.  It is almost painfully bright to her magic-enhanced eyes, and she looks away.  The dull sound comes again and again, and when she looks up again, there are another half dozen spears of light stabbing down into the city.  She senses people in the shadowed buildings looking up, looking out.  Senses their hope.

More and more shafts of light break through the dome, and then the dome itself is cracking open, pieces of darkness falling, revealing the blue sky beyond.  The shards of darkness dissolve in the air as they fall, the only tangible sensation of the energy falling to earth a faint crawling across Darcy’s exposed skin.

Darcy smiles, turns her face up to the warm sunlight.  The magic surges within her, a cresting wave that longs to be allowed to crash back down over Hel.

A thought, and she is at the edge of Central Park.  It is the same place she entered on the night of the labyrinth.  There is nothing here now but the ash-strewn ground.  In the distance, the branch of Yggdrasil, its light barely visible now against the blue sky.  It still has power, though, and even as she looks, Darcy can sense Hel sending darkness up through the tree, seeking to reform the dome over the city.

Thunder crashes almost directly overhead, and Darcy glances up sharply.  Has Hel managed to reform the dome so quickly?  There is only a faint patch of darkness above Yggdrasil, little more than a deepening of the blue of the sky.

White light flashes in the corner of Darcy’s eye.  She turns, sees that a beam of light is projecting from Stark Tower.

The magic within Darcy knows it immediately: Jane’s wormhole, open at least without the dome to block it.

The light flares, and white lightning crackles around the Tower.  A shadow falls through the light, and the wormhole vanishes.

Darcy knows who has passed through that wormhole.  Knows that the magic she holds will be a beacon to him.  She wants to cloak herself from her eyes, but there is no more she can siphon from the magic without destabilising the weapon.

Air rushes around her, and then Thor is there, Mjolnir in hand.  “Lo-“ he begins, then breaks off, staring at her.  “ _Darcy_?”

Darcy smiles, knows that the expression sits oddly on her changed face.  “Hi?”

Thor’s eyes sweep over her armour, come to rest on her eyes.  Remain there for a moment only before he looks away.  “Darcy, what has happened to you.  Has Loki…?”

“Loki is locked in his cell,” Darcy says.  “He didn’t do this.”

Thor’s eyes flick up to Yggdrasil, widen slightly as he recognises it.  “And this?”  He pauses, his fingers tightening around Mjolnir.  “And Jane?”

“Jane is fine.  Apart from the fact that she hasn’t slept in weeks trying to open the wormhole that brought you here.”

“That was Jane’s work?  I might have known.”  Thor’s fingers have not loosened from his hammer.  “What has happened to Midgard, Darcy?  Heimdall has been unable to see naught but a shadow.  We feared…I feared…”

“It’s complicated.”  The magic writhes within Darcy, reminding her that she does not have the time for this.  “You need to go and rescue Jane.  She’s fine, but she’s a prisoner in Stark Tower.  Pepper, too.  A man named Daniel Blackwood has taken over.”

“Jane is a prisoner?”  Anger tightens the lines of Thor’s face.  He no longer looks at Yggdrasil or at Darcy, but has turned towards the Tower, Mjolnir already beginning to spin.

“She’s in one of the labs.  I don’t know which one.  Blackwood will _not_ be happy about the wormhole opening, either.”

Thor glances over his shoulder.  “And what of you, Darcy?”

“Don’t worry about me.”  She uses the tiniest amount of magic, siphoning it from her shell and _pushing_ it towards Thor.  Focusing him only on rescuing Jane.  It will fade quickly, but it will give her the time she needs.  “Just go and help Jane.  She needs you.”

That was all that Thor needed to hear.  He swings Mjolnir and lifts off.

Darcy breathes a sigh of relief that catches in her throat.  The magic is growing more and more unstable within her, pushing out against her skin, which is beginning to feel as thin and brittle as porcelain.  She needs to get moving.  

She begins walking, not even wanting to use the small amount of magic it would take to teleport herself.

There are hundreds of shadow people surrounding Yggdrasil now.  All are naked, and all are completely blackened.  They stare blindly ahead, and as Darcy threads carefully through them, she sees that all of the whites of their eyes are scrawled with black curlicues as well.

In the central circle, she finds Beth holding Ravi in her arms.  Ravi barely appears to be breathing, and his eyes are deep wells of black, even his irises swallowed by the darkness.  Max sits on the opposite side of the tree, a figure that looks to have been carved from obsidian.

Hel is nowhere to be seen, though Darcy can sense her somewhere on the opposite side of the park.  She has given up trying to restore the darkness, and is now sweeping the city, searching for the person who shattered the dome.

Darcy smiles grimly.  The magic is a storm-bound ocean within her now, screaming to be released.  

Darcy closes her eyes, extends a hand palm-out.  Aiming for Yggdrasil.  Aiming for Hel.

She releases the magic.

It burns through her, a joyous cascade, spilling out through her palm.

And suddenly a hand clasps hers.

Darcy’s eyes fly open.  Loki stands between her and Yggdrasil, the magic flowing from her body and into his.  She tries to pull away from him, but the strength the magic gave her is already fading, and Loki is too strong.  The magic flows and flows, and she can do nothing to stop it.

As the last of it fades from her, Darcy’s armour becomes white scrubs again.  Her heart falters, and her legs buckle beneath her.  She would have fallen, but for Loki’s grip on her hand.  He wraps his other arm around her, pulls her in against his chest.

Everything has faded.  Her skin is just skin again, and she cannot sense Hel.  Her thoughts are too slow, her senses too dull.

“I will not allow anyone else to die for me,” he says.  “Least of all you, Darcy.”

Darcy presses her face into his chest.  She’s shaking her head almost convulsively, holding onto him as though she’s drowning.  “No, no, no, no,” she says over and over, as though it’s a litany to reverse what he’s done.  “Give it back.  _Give it back_.”

Loki slides a hand beneath her chin, lifts her face up.  There are tears shining in his eyes.  “You would have sacrificed yourself.  For _me_.”  There is something like wonder in his voice.

Darcy runs her hands over his chest, his arms, his face.  “I don’t want you to die,” she says in a small voice.

Loki presses a kiss to her forehead.  “And I will not let you die.”

Darcy’s heart is still stuttering, her ribs feeling as though someone is squeezing them together, making it difficult to catch her breath.  “I’m not sure if you get a say in that at this point.”

Loki grasps her chin again, finger and thumb pressed against the twinned pulses in her neck, eyes burning into hers.  She feels the cold tingle of his magic moving over her skin, moving _through_ her.  A sharp pain twists in her chest, as though he has plunged a knife there.  Loki’s lips thin.

“The magic was not made to be contained by human flesh,” he says.  He presses a hand to the hollow between her breasts, his other hand still the only thing stopping her from collapsing.  

That cold tingle comes again, deeper now, and she feels the tiniest portion of the magic siphon back into her.  The pain recedes.

“I do not know what even that will do to your body in the long term,” Loki says.  “But it means you will live now.”

Darcy can just sense Hel again now, a distant shadow in the world.  Loki burns brighter than the sun with the magic, an emerald flame that will call to Hel.  Darcy can already feel her turning, approaching slowly, warily.

Lightning cracks in the distance, and Loki looks up towards Stark Tower.

“You don’t have to do it.”  Darcy is filled with a sudden wild hope.  “Jane got the wormhole open.  We can ask Asgard for help.  You don’t have to do this.”

Loki looks at Darcy again.  There is sorrow in his eyes.  “You held the magic, Darcy.  You know the truth of it.  There is no turning back.”

There is a thud behind Darcy.  She turns to see Thor land, Jane in his arms.  When he releases her, Jane is able to stand on her own, but she holds onto Thor’s arm.  Her face is tight with exhaustion, but she looks happy.  

 _And why shouldn’t she be?_ Darcy thinks.  _She has Thor back.  She doesn’t have to watch him die_.

Thor stares at Loki, his face splitting into a smile.  “Brother!  You are free of your cell!”

Loki meets Thor’s gaze.  Fresh tears well in his eyes, spill onto his cheeks.  It is the first time Darcy has seen him truly lost for words.  Finally, he manages one single, strangled word.  “Brother.”

Thor’s smile wavers.  “Loki, what is wrong?”

“Everything.”  Loki turns his attention back to Darcy.  Kisses her gently.  She feels the tingle of magic between them, emerald and sapphire mingling.  “Darcy,” Loki whispers.  “I wish I could have stayed.  My love.”  His voice breaks on the last.

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, his face creased in pain, and then he pushed Darcy gently towards Thor.  “Hold her, brother.  Keep her safe.  For me.”

Thor’s free arm closes around Darcy, following Loki’s command instinctively, though Darcy can see the confusion on his face.  She pushes against his hold, but it is like fighting against steel.

“Thor, you can’t let him do this!” she says.

Thor looks down at her, then back at Loki.  Loki is turning towards Yggdrasil.  On the opposite side of the tree, Hel is approaching, her teeth bared in a sharp, hungry grin.  The tattered hem of her dress brushes against a blackened person as she passes; their form falls to ash from the light touch.

Hel looks only at Thor, Jane and Darcy.  And Darcy knows that Loki is using the magic to hide himself from her.  Hel doesn’t know what’s coming.  

Darcy wants nothing more than to close her eyes, but she makes herself watch.  She wants to remember everything.

Loki stands next to Yggdrasil, tall and lean in his dark green linen shirt and black trousers.  His feet are bare, his hair loose and wild.  Even now, Darcy is struck by his beauty, by the angles of his face, by the emerald of his eyes.  She strains again against Thor’s arm, wants to be with Loki, to burn with him, but Thor holds her immobile.

Loki looks at Darcy, his lips shaping words that she cannot hear.

He presses a hand against Yggdrasil, and magic flows from his fingers.  Emerald and sapphire light spirals around the tree, forking along its branches in an echo of Thor’s lightning.  Hel breaks off stalking Thor, Jane and Darcy, turns back to the tree, screaming.  Loki extends his other hand, and another stream of magic bursts forth, surrounds Hel.

Everything is still and silent, and Hel and Loki soundlessly explode, their bodies coming apart, bursting into a cloud of ash that obscures everything.

Darcy is glad now for Thor’s arm around her was the ash flows over them.  She tastes smoke, and when she presses her lips together, they are covered with grit.

When the ash finally clears, it reveals the skeleton of Yggdrasil.  All of its light is gone, and every branch is charred black.  The people surrounding it are blinking as though waking up, all of them looking about, confused.  None of them bear a single trace of black on their skin or eyes.

In the silence, Ravi begins to cry thinly.

And Darcy begins to weep, too, great wracking sobs that shake her body over and over.

Of Loki and Hel, there is no sign.

They are gone.

 


	28. Desolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the comments, kudos and subscriptions, as well as reactions on Tumblr. You guys are all the absolute best.
> 
> The last chapter (27) is as dark and depressing as it gets. There's always hope, and we're on the way to the light.

 

The sun rises over the park.

Darcy sits before the burned remains of the branch of Yggdrasil, runs her fingers through the ash that covers the ground.

A part of her mind reminds her that these are the ashes of people she’s touching, that she’s sitting in human remains, that she’s _breathing_ them in.  The thought sinks down through the emptiness within her, keeps on going and going, never hits bottom.

She feels nothing.

She feels everything.

She twists the ring she still wears on her left hand.  The copper is dull, almost as grey as the ashes beneath her, the outermost strands broken.  The tiny amount of magic within her surges, slides through the metal, trying to repair the damage.  It tries valiantly, but there isn’t enough.  It withdraws, curls up deep within her.

Footsteps behind her, and then Jane appears at her side.  She’s wearing heavy military boots over her jeans, the leather coated with dust.  She squats down, keeps her hands in her lap.

“Have you been out here all night?” she asks.

Darcy runs her hands through her hair, heedless of the streaks of ash she’ll leave behind.  Her hair is damp; she vaguely remembers a light drizzle somewhere in the early hours.

“We’re working on getting the wormhole open again,” Jane says when Darcy doesn’t reply.  Her eyes move around constantly, sliding over the remains of the tree, never resting on the blackened bark.  “Just enough to be able to send messages back and forth, so Asgard knows what happened here.”  She pauses.  “What _did_ happen, Darce?”

Darcy says nothing.

Jane rubs her hands against her jeans, though she hasn’t touched anything.  “We’re working on dismantling the quarantine around your apartment, too.  I’ve had them put a cot in my apartment for you in the meantime.  You should come back, have something to eat, get some sleep.”  She waits, and when Darcy is still silent, she stands.  “I’ll have someone come down and bring you some food, then.  Send a doctor to check on you.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”  Darcy’s voice is rough, her throat dry.  She holds up her unmarked hands.  The black is gone entirely, and all that remains to mark Hel’s influence are the scars of the claw marks, silvered and thin now, almost invisible.  “I’m fine.”

“I’ll send someone down anyway.”  Jane rubs her hands on her jeans again.  “They haven’t found any sign of Daniel Blackwood.  In every record, he doesn’t even seem to exist, which makes it difficult to try to track him down.  We’ve passed everything we have onto S.H.I.E.L.D.  They’ll find him.  And  we found Tony.  His prototype failed, and he was stuck on the outskirts of the city with a broken ankle.  You should hear the whining.”  She reaches out to Darcy, her fingers hovering an inch from Darcy’s shoulder, then she pulls her hand back without touching her.  “It’s all going to be okay, Darce.”

“How?” Darcy’s eyes are on the tree as she speaks.  The wood has become something like obsidian, shining dully in the light of the rising sun.  She touches it, ignoring Jane’s indrawn hiss of breath.  It’s cold beneath her fingers.  “The world’s still broken.”

“And we’ll fix it.  We always do, right?”

Darcy has no answer for that.  Jane turns and walks back through the park, leaving her alone again.

 

#

 

The next day, it is Pepper who comes and visits her.

It rained heavily overnight, washing away much of the ash on the ground.  The grass revealed beneath is bleached white, pale enough that Darcy thought it was completely dead.  Until she touched it, and found the blades soft and lush.  When she picks a blade, she can see the tiniest hint of green at the root.

That, at least, will come right again.

It almost seems a mockery, that _anything_ should be right again.

Pepper doesn’t hesitate, just sits down next to Darcy.  She’s wearing low-heeled pumps and a white suit, and doesn’t seem to care about getting ash or mud on either.  She doesn’t say anything.

After a while, Darcy realises that she’s crying, silent tears streaming down her face, splashing into the already damp soil.

Pepper reaches out, takes her hand.  Her fingers are warm in Darcy’s, solid and real and reassuring.

 

#

 

Days pass.  The weather grows colder and colder, and soon it begins to snow.

As the sun rises, Darcy holds out her hands, collects snowflakes in her palms.  The flakes melt slowly, and she turns her hands, watches the flakes catch the light.  Her hands grow numb, and soon the flakes don’t melt at all.  The cold spirals down into the depths of her.

She stops shivering.  She doesn’t care.  Let everything freeze.  Let everything be winter.

Footfalls crunch against the rime of ice on the grass behind her.  Their weight can only mean one person: Thor.

Darcy doesn’t turn from the tree.  “Are they going to try to take it down again?”

In previous days, Darcy had been ushered away from the tree while construction equipment  was brought in.  A bulldozer had attempted to knock down the twisted remains of the branch of Yggdrasil, to no avail.  More equipment that Darcy could not name was brought in one by one, each machine larger than the last.  None of them had made so much as a scratch on the slick black of the tree.

Late the previous evening, Thor had even attempted to strike the tree down with Mjolnir.  It had resisted even that.

Thor squats down next to Darcy.  He’s wearing jeans and a thick black sweater, and he still looks cold.  Mjolnir is nowhere to be seen, but Darcy has no doubt that the hammer is stashed somewhere nearby.

“Darcy, you should retreat from this place,” Thor says.  “Even I can see that this vigil is not good for you.  Jane is concerned about you, and so are the doctors.”

Darcy lets the snow fall through her fingers.  Both of her inner elbows are bruised from the marks of multiple needles.  She paid little attention to what the doctors had said when they had returned.  She has a vague memory of them talking about malnutrition and anaemia.

“How is Jane?” Darcy asks, turning to Thor.

“Working, as always.”  Thor touched his fingers to the gleaming black of the tree, pulls them away quickly.  “The Bifrost will be functional again soon.  She tells me that she will rest then.”

“And you believe her?”

Thor smiles, that openly guileless grin of his, so unlike his brother’s.  Darcy’s heart feels as though it’s being squeezed in her chest, and she turns away.

“Will you return to Asgard then?” she asks.

“It is my duty.”  Thor worries his fingers over the seams of his jeans.  Loose threads about the knees speak of the fact that this has been an oft-repeated gesture over the last days.  “I am heir to the throne of Asgard.”  There is no pride in the statement, just resignation.

Darcy leans her forehead against the tree.  She thinks of it less and less as Yggdrasil as the days pass.  The smooth black doesn’t warm beneath her skin, a strangely soothing sensation.  “Do you think he’s really gone?”

Thor’s fingers clench.  “I know what I saw.  His body…”  He swallows hard.  “I am not certain that any living thing could survive that.  But…he is who he is.  He fell into an abyss and survived.”

Darcy looks at him sharply.  “You think he could have survived this?”

“I hold hope.”  Thor stands, tugs down his sweater.  The clothing suits him, but he looks ill at ease in it.  “When the Bifrost is repaired and I can return to Asgard, I will converse with Heimdall.  If my brother-“  He breaks off, his voice catching on the word.  “If Loki lives, Heimdall will see him.”

“And what if he sees nothing?”

“It would not be the first time Loki has hidden himself from Heimdall.”  Thor clasps Darcy’s shoulder.  His fingers are warm against her cold flesh.  “One can always find hope, if one wishes to.  Even in the most foolish of circumstances.”

“So you’d just give up, if Heimdall sees nothing?”

“Sometimes you hope, but then you need to hide that hope away, move on.  Live as though there is nothing to hope for.”

Darcy looks up at Thor.  His eyes are unfocused, looking at something beyond the physical.  “You really don’t want to be King, do you?”

He shifts his weight uncomfortably.  “It is what I was raised for.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to want it.  Doesn’t mean you have to _be_ it.”

He smiles, and there is a deep sorrow in his eyes.  “There is no one else.”

Darcy twists her ring around her finger.  The metal is warm, despite the cold.  “That day…when Jane opened the wormhole.  When you saw Loki, you were happy about Loki being out of his cell.”

Thor rubs his hands against the seams of his jeans.  He does not look at her when he replies.  “It was Mother’s plan.  To send Loki to Midgard, give him a chance to find who she was convinced he was.”  He looks up at the sky, clouds reflecting in the blue of his eyes.  “The Allfather had sentenced Loki to lifetime imprisonment in the dungeons of Asgard.  Mother wished something more.  She enchanted Loki’s Asgardian cell, created a double of him there so it appeared he was still locked away.  Then sent him to Midgard instead, along with the cell she designed.”

Darcy stares at Thor.  “Odin didn’t know?”

“As he still does not.  His rage against Loki…it is not a sane thing.”  Thor holds out a hand, calls Mjolnir.  “Part of the enchantment Mother put on Loki’s cell was that when he realised who he was, once he had paid the price for the crimes he committed, he could simply walk out.  At no other time could the cell be opened for him.”

“What about other people?”

Thor looks down, blinks at Mjolnir as though he hadn’t realised he’d called the hammer.  “The cell was not designed to admit anyone.  Asgardian or Midgardian.”

 _More of Frigga’s plans, things that she did not tell even Thor._   “Did Loki walk out of the cell?  Or did he trick his way out?”

Thor is silent for a long time before he answers.  “He walked out.  The cell opened for him.”

It takes a long time before Darcy realises that Thor left her alone after that.  It takes longer for her to realise that she had been weeping since, her tears freezing on her cheeks.

 

#

 

The next day, Darcy returns to Stark Tower.

The first place she visits is Loki’s cell.  The transparent barrier is simply gone, as though there has never been a wall there at all.  The gate has been removed, too, along with the gate controls and desk in the next room.  There’s no sign of the barriers that Blackwood erected to entomb Loki apart from the fresh paint and plaster on the walls.

The cell itself has been scrubbed clean, the black blood finally cleaned away and a fresh coat of paint applied here too.  Everything has been removed from the cell apart from the cot.  Even the sink Loki twisted is gone, a sawn-off pipe projecting from the wall where it was.

Darcy lies down on the cot.  It has been stripped of its covers, and the mattress smells of bleach and cleaning chemicals.  There is no comfort in it, and she stands up again quickly.  

She presses her hand to the wall where the doorway had opened.  There is a faint tingling in her palm, so faint that she might only be imagining it, but nothing happens.

When she leaves the cell, she knows she will never return to it.  There is nothing there for her now.

 

#

 

It is easy to slide back into the work of being Jane’s intern.  Jane’s notes are scattered everywhere around the lab, books tossed here and there as she had worked in a frenzy on the wormhole.  Darcy collects the papers, the books, begins the process of typing everything and entering it into Jane’s database.

She makes coffee, ensures that Jane takes breaks to eat.

She feels nothing.

That night, she sleeps on the cot set up in Jane’s living room.

She does not dream, and she wakes up weeping.

 

#

 

Winter passes.

Slowly, Stark Tower returns to normal.  The containment around Darcy’s apartment is deconstructed, the apartment itself completely renovated.  When it is finished, Stark himself presents Darcy with the key.

She spends the next week still sleeping on the cot in Jane’s apartment.

It’s only when she realises that Thor is deliberately sleeping elsewhere that she tells Jane to send the cot back to storage.  Jane’s look of relief is quickly masked, but Darcy sees it all the same.

Truly, she’s happy for Jane and Thor.

At least she thinks she is, somewhere deep below the emptiness that fills her.  To be otherwise, what would that make her?

That night, she works late.  Checks her data in triplicate.  Cleans the benches, vacuums the computer keyboards.  Cleans the coffee machine.  

When she finally takes the elevator to the nineteenth floor, its well after midnight.

The corridor is now carpeted with soft grey, the walls painted a delicate eggshell.  Two paintings are hung on the walls, both depicting calm oceanscapes.  Darcy pauses at the painting next to her door.  A white beach, pallid blue sea.  Not a hint of seafoam or breeze.  She supposes someone though it was soothing, but to her, it just feels incomplete.  A lie.

She swipes her key, enters the apartment.

She immediately suspects Pepper’s hand in the remodelling.  The entire space has been hollowed out, and the apartment itself now fills the floor above as well.  Darcy wonders absently who had to sacrifice their apartment on that floor.  Hopes that it’s not because the owner died, knows that’s probably more likely.

Everything is pale wood, white, hints of chrome here and there.  The lower floor is all open plan living space, a kitchen filling one corner.  She opens the cupboards, finds them stocked with instant foods, dried packets.  The fridge is almost empty, but there’s a carton of long-life milk.  And on the top shelf, a small carton of fresh blueberries.  She closes the door quickly.  She doesn’t want to eat, anyway.  She doesn’t remember if she ate during the day, but she’s not hungry.  And she knows that her body is becoming softer again, so she must be eating something, even if she tastes none of it.

A spiral staircase leads to an upper loft level.  Queen-sized bed, white quilt, another soothing seascape above.  Small open wardrobe with several shelves filled with jeans and sweaters.  All in plain colours.  Nothing green, nothing black.

A corner has been walled off to make a small bathroom.  No tub, everything utilitarian.

Darcy goes back down the stairs again.  Stands in the centre of the space, closes her eyes and visualises how the apartment had been.  Without opening her eyes, she moves to where the doorway to the Asgardian rooms had appeared.  When she places her hand on the wall, there’s that faint tingling, and she’s aware of the magic uncurling within her, like the first shoot of a plant reaching for the sun, but nothing else happens.

Darcy showers, dresses in a loose shirt she pulls from the wardrobe.  It’s cut generously enough that it could be a man’s shirt, and made from a synthetic that could, in the right light, be mistaken for linen.  It’s blue, the closest colour she can get to green.

She curls up in bed, the lights still on.  Outside, she can see lights burning in some of the other buildings.  People are coming back.

She wishes she could think that everything would be okay.

She wishes she could wish anything.

She closes her eyes, sleeps,hopes to dream.

 

#

 

In the deep dark of her sleep, there is a vague feeling of cold.

 

#

 

Darcy wakes in the pale pre-dawn light, elated that she had dreamed _something_ , at least.

Then she looks down, sees that she has kicked the quilt to the floor.  Her white shirt is damp with sweat.

She got cold in her sleep, that was all.

There is nothing else.

There will never be anything else.

 

#

 

The next morning, she makes a muttered excuse to Jane.  Leaves Stark Tower.  She’s aware that there are two ill-concealed guards trailing her, can’t decide if it makes her feel safe or bothers her.

The streets she walks through feel both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.  There is movement in most of the buildings she passes.  People moving in, people cleaning, people painting, knocking down walls, rebuilding them.  She tells herself that it makes her feel people.  People are returning.  The city will live again.

It’s only when she reaches her old building, the once-Utopia, that things change.

The sign on the building is gone, tall scorch marks left in its place.  The cables and pipes and wires that had connected Utopia to the neighbouring buildings are gone.  All that remains of them is a twisted knot of electrical wire, sparking fitfully in the light breeze.

This little knot of buildings is empty and still.  Completely silent.

Darcy enters Utopia.  The guards do not follow, but linger on the street.

She moves up floor by floor, walking along each long corridor that tunnels across the building.  The doors are still all gone, and she peers into each apartment she passes.  All are empty of people and possessions.  In most the walls have been scrawled over with black lines reminiscent of the marks Hel had branded everyone with.  In several, the walls, ceiling and floor had all been painted solid black.

When she reaches the apartment that had been hers, she pauses in the hallway outside.  

She feels nothing, but she tells herself that she feels dread.  That she feels hope.  That she feels sorrow.

She steps over the threshold.  Unlike the other apartments, hers has been scrubbed clean, in several places the paint so worn from scrubbing that the brick beyond has been exposed.  There is nothing here.  No familiarity, no memories.  Just emptiness.

She keeps moving up.  Everything is empty.

It is only when she comes out onto the roof that she finds someone.

The girl is standing on the edge of the roof, looking down over the precipice.  There had been a barrier there, but someone has knocked it down, leaving only the odd spike of steel thrusting up from the flat of the roof.  The girl stands with her bare foot pressed against one of these spikes.  She’s wearing loose jeans and a red sweater, the latter so bright that it fairly seems to glow in the sunlight.  Her hair has been cut close to her scalp.  Darcy suspects that she’s sheared it off herself, the strands clumped in uneven, tangled locks, with several places cut so short that the pale skin of her scalp shows.

She looks nothing like the girl Darcy knew.  And yet Darcy knows her all the same.

“Beth?” she asks.

Beth doesn’t turn away from the edge.  “I wondered when you’d come.”  Her voice is flat, without affect.

“Beth, are you okay?”  Darcy glances around the rooftop.  One of her neighbours had grown tomatoes up here before everything fell apart.  A few of the old pots have been shattered to shards, the shards scattered around.  Apart from that, the rooftop is empty.  “Where’s Ravi?”

Beth holds her hands out over the edge.  She has red ribbons laced around her wrists.  The long ends flutter in the breeze, snap to and fro when they get caught in a particularly large gust.  “I gave him to Morrigan.”

Darcy edges closer, keeping her movements slow and steady.  “You gave him away?  Why?”

Beth turns to face Darcy.  She’s used cheap eyeliner to scrawl black curlicues around her eyes.  More sweep around the stark lines of her cheekbones, dipping into the shadowed hollows there.  “I didn’t think _you_ would ask me that.  I thought you’d understand.”  Beth holds her arms out, the ribbons whipping around her hands.  The sleeves of her sweater ride up, revealing a little of her forearms.  There are deep, ragged lines etched into Beth’s skin, the newest still bleeding.  “How could I keep him, after what I let happen to him?  Morrigan kept her children safe.  She wasn’t touched by the black, and neither were they.”  A tear wells, smudges the black on her cheek.  “I don’t deserve him.  I don’t deserve anything.  I am no one.  I am nothing.”

 _I am no one._   Those words jar through Darcy, through the abyss within her.  She remembers a dream of standing on the edge of Stark Tower as Beth stands on the edge of once-Utopia.   She remembers Loki standing behind her.  The memories begin to spill through her then.  It takes all of her will to push them away.

“You’re not no one, Beth.  You’re you, something no one else can never be.  You’re Ravi’s mother.”

“But what use am I?  What the hell have I given to the world?”  Beth turns back to face the street.  “He didn’t even blink when I handed him over to Morrigan.  Just curled into his arms like he belonged there.  Morrigan told me later that he slept through the night, didn’t wake once.  Every night he had with me he was restless.  Maybe he just wanted to leave and never could before.”

“Or maybe he was picking up on his mother’s pain.”

Beth makes a derisive noise.  “And what about you?  You look fine.  Living in Stark Tower, up there with the gods while the monsters fight over crumbs on the ground.  How did that happen?  We all thought you’d go like Max.”

“Max?  What happened to Max?”

Beth makes a diving motion with one hand.  The wind pulls at the ribbon on that wrist, tugs it loose.  The streak of red twists and dances in the air, vanished from sight.  “He went back to his old apartment.  Found his daughter.  Found what was left of her, anyway, after what happened to her after he left her.”  Beth tugs at the other ribbon until it loosens, holds it between thumb and forefinger, then lets it go.  This one lifts up and up into the sky before vanishing from sight behind a taller building.  “How are you so okay?”

Darcy swallows a laugh.  The idea that anyone could think she was okay seems a ludicrous one.  She looks down at her clean clothes, her softening body.  Her hair is clean and dry, and she even applied some makeup that morning.  She supposes that on the surface she does look okay.  But she knows, perhaps better than most, that appearances were too often a lie.

She has no platitude she can give Beth, no magic truth that will make it okay.

 _Lie, then_.

Darcy starts, looking wildly around the rooftop.  Loki’s voice, drifting through the abyss, so strong that she could have believed he was whispering in her ear.  The magic within her twists around, as though it, too, seeks its home.

“There’s always hope, isn’t there?” she asks.  She turns her broken ring around her finger.  Even here, in the wind that’s drawing goosebumps from her skin, the metal is warm.  “Even when everything’s falling apart, you still have hope.”

“Hope for what?  More of the same crap life?  More people to leave you?”

Darcy winces at that, knowing that she is one of the people who left Beth.  “That things will get better somehow.”  She holds out her hand.  “I’ll make you a deal, Beth.  You come with me, we go and collect Ravi.  The both of you come and stay with me in Stark Tower.  Even if it’s just for a few days so you can rest, get some decent food.  And if you want, I can talk to someone about finding you a job, an apartment.  Help.  Whatever you and Ravi need.”

“And what do you want in return?” Beth asks, her eyes hard.

“A friend,” Darcy says, and she’s being totally honest this time.  “A chance to make all of this mean something.  Hope of my own.”  She smiles.  “It’s not easy for anyone, Beth.  Not even the gods know what they’re doing.  Not really.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Beth takes her hand, allows Darcy to lead her away from the edge.

 

#

 

Beth and Ravi stay with Darcy that night.  Darcy attempts to give her bed to Beth and Ravi, sleep on the couch, but Beth insists that they all share the bed.  It’s comforting having someone else there, even if Darcy wakes from a dreamless sleep in the middle of the night with tears on her face because she thinks that it’s Loki there with her.

In the morning, Darcy speaks with Pepper.  In short time, an admin job is found for Beth, along with child care for Ravi.

A week later, Beth and Ravi move into the apartment opposite Darcy.  Pepper herself has overseen the decoration of a bedroom and playroom for Ravi, filled both with toys and books that she procured from who-knows-where.

For a long time, Darcy notices that Beth doesn’t read to Ravi, though she plays enthusiastically with the rest of the toys.  A little probing reveals that Beth’s skill with letters is rudimentary.  Darcy teaches her, and is rewarded with Beth working her way slowly through Ravi’s books.  She moves on steadily to more and more challenging texts.  Soon, she’s even raiding Darcy’s shelves for books.  The day that Beth is shown the many libraries in the building, Darcy thinks she’s going to faint from happiness.

Beth discovers mythology, and dives into its study headfirst.  The Norse mythology, Darcy expects, but Beth seems to be open to any and all cultures.  Darcy wanders into Beth’s apartment one day to find Beth sitting at a table strewn with notes.  The complex diagrams and lines cross-reference mythologies and deities, draws parallels between them.  Beth says that she feels like she’s getting close to some universal truth, some answer that will unlock everything about human thought and belief.

Darcy reads the notes Beth presses on her, beginning from the bottom of it all.  Death, the Underworld, Hell and Helheim.  When Beth hands her notes on Loki and Thor in mythology, Darcy refuses to read any more.

The city is being rebuilt.  People are coming back.  Jane works with Asgard, and the Bifrost will be open between Asgard and Midgard any day.  The wars are beginning to end.  Beth is happy.

Darcy tells herself that she’s happy, too.  

 

#

 

Darcy, Beth and Ravi are playing in Central Park.

The park is green again now, though the leaves are beginning to shade towards autumn as the weather cools again.  People have come back to the city, and they are dotted about the lawns reading or listening to music or just lying there soaking in the sun.  People have slowed down since everything that happened, taking the time to savour more of life.

A couple passes, hand in hand, matching gold rings glinting in the sun.  The man is tall, dark-haired and slim, dressed in a tailored suit.  The woman is a full head shorter, her curves wrapped in green silk.  Darcy looks away from them, finds herself looking at the blackened remains of the tree.

No one had been able to topple it, no matter what they tried.  And so the city has claimed it for its own.  It has become a memorial: cairns of stones places in concentric circles around, photographs and flowers and notes tucked beneath the rocks.  Even now, no one really knows how many people died in and after the battle of New York.  Too many is all Darcy knows.

A flash in the sky, and light streams down onto Stark Tower.  Ravi looks up, laughs and claps, chants: “Rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!”

The Bifrost is open again.

 

#

 

Darcy remains in the park even after Beth and Ravi have returned home.  Wanders amongst the cairns.  Find’s Max’s photograph next to a photo of his daughter.  Too many other photos she recognises, even if she doesn’t know their names.

Thor finds her there.  He is dressed in his full Asgardian armour, Mjolnir in his hand.  He smiles when he sees Darcy, though there is strain in the expression.

“You’re going home, then?” Darcy asks.

Thor nods.  “I have been summoned,” he says.  “As have you.”

Darcy stares at him.  “What?”

“It is what I was told.  Frigga, Queen of Asgard, summons the Midgardian Darcy Lewis.  I know not what for.”

Darcy looks down at the closest cairn.  The photograph tucked beneath the rocks is that of a child, barely three years old.  He has dark hair, green eyes, a fine-boned face.  There is no other identifying papers, just the photograph and a single white rose.

“Right, then,” Darcy says.  “I guess we’re going to Asgard, then.”


	29. Asgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for all of the comments, kudos and subscriptions. You guys are all awesome.
> 
> We are on the home stretch with this fic now - I've planned out the rest of it, and there are only four chapters left after this one if I stick to the plan! eep!

Darcy tumbles to the ground, lands in an undignified heap.  Her head is filled with a kaleidoscope of spinning colours, and nausea twists hard in her belly.  The floor beneath her is cool and solid, and she presses her hands to it, focuses on the feel of it supporting her weight.

A cool hand presses to the back of her neck, rubs in gentle circles.  Darcy focuses on the touch, and slowly the colours recede from her mind.

She looks up.  Blinks when she finds herself looking into brown eyes.  

For a heartbeat only, she had expected to look up into green eyes.  Pain wells in the abyss within her, but she pushes it down, pushes it away.  Focuses on the things that are real and certain.  She, Jane and Thor have travelled via the Bifrost to Asgard on the pretence of Thor introducing Jane to his family.  The reality - that he and Darcy has been summoned to Frigga - is known only to Thor and Darcy.  Even Jane does not know, something that Darcy had argued against, but Thor had insisted upon.

“Are you well, Darcy?” Thor asks.

Darcy manages a watery smile.  “Just peachy.”  She lets Jane help her to her feet.  Her legs tremble, but they hold her.  Just.  “How come you look like you’ve just crossed a damn road instead of been flung clear across the universe?” she asks Jane.

“Bifrost travel is generally considered to be a pleasant, even exhilarating, experience,” a deep voice says behind Darcy.

Darcy turns.  The man who spoke is clad in gold armour, his eyes shining brighter than the metal.  She recognises him, at least, from Thor’s crash course on Asgard.  Heimdall, guardian and sentry of Asgard.  He _looks_ at her, and she feels her cheeks heat, wonders how much he actually sees and knows.

“Are you certain that you are well?” Thor asks.  “We can see you to a healer?”

Heimdall is still _looking_.  Darcy thinks quickly.  “Just travel sick, I guess,” she lies.  “When I was a kid, I’d throw up if I so much as rode my bike over a bumpy road.”

The explanation mollified Jane, and after Jane explains the unfamiliar Midgardian terms, Thor, also.  Heimdall only continues to look at Darcy, those shining eyes unblinking, his expression utterly unreadable.

Darcy edges closer to Jane and Thor.

Thor wraps an arm around Jane’s shoulders.  “I bring the Lady Jane of Midgard to visit with the Allfather and the Queen.  And her handmaiden, Lady Darcy of Midgard.”

Darcy bites back a retort.  The sickness had made her forget that part of the plan.

Heimdall is still staring, and she drops into a curtsey, regretting it immediately when she remembers that she’s wearing jeans and therefore probably looks entirely ridiculous.  “Handy and maidenly right here,” she babbles as she straightens.  “Well, not so much with the maidenly, and possibly not so much with the handy.  Unless you give me an iPod or Macbook, and I’m pretty sure that you don’t have them in Asgard.”  She cringes as the words tumble out of her mouth.  Even Jane is giving her a look, now.  “Um.  Hi?”

She thinks she sees Heimdall’s lips twitch, just the smallest of movements.  “Welcome to Asgard.  Lady Jane, Lady Darcy.”  He turns his attention, finally, away from Darcy, turning to Thor instead.  “The Queen has been taken ill, and has retired to her chambers.  She regrets that she will not be able to attend the formal audience or feast, but she begs that you and your lady attend her on the morrow.”

“Mother is ill?” Thor asks, immediately tense.

“Exhaustion, the healers say.”  Heimdall’s eyes flick to Darcy, then return to Thor.  “The Queen simply requires rest.  For now, the Allfather bades you all rest and refresh yourself in the rooms that have been provided.  When you have rested, he will see you and Lady Jane in the throne room.”

Darcy sees Jane wince, though she quickly covers the reaction with a smile.  Darcy suspects that anyone who didn’t know Jane would think that she was totally fine with being here, but she can see the tension in Jane’s shoulders, the way she clings onto Thor.  Jane pretty much feels like she’s drowning.

Thor leads Jane towards the city, leaving Darcy to follow in their wake.  She wants to complain about walking behind them, but she figures that a handmaiden would expect to always walk behind her mistress.  At least being a handmaiden means that she doesn’t have attend the audience with Odin.  Just the thought of that sends a shiver down Darcy’s spine, though she couldn’t have said why.

Darcy feels the weight of Heimdall’s gaze the whole way across the bridge, and she is glad when they reach the end and enter the city proper, moving out of his physical sight.  She knows intellectually that he can “see” them all the same, but at least with walls between them, she can pretend otherwise.

 

#

 

Thor shows Jane and Darcy to their rooms in the palace.  He lingers for a moment in the doorway, actually managing to look awkward, which Darcy reckons is quite a stretch for him.  Then he bows and retreats, presumably to his own princely rooms.

Jane’s bedroom is large, the bedclothes and curtains of plush crimson velvet just a shade darker than Thor’s cape.  Everywhere else Darcy looks, she sees gold and jewels.  An Asgardian-styled gown is hung next to the bed: flowing grey silk trimmed with red velvet, the waist emphasised in silver embroidery in a subtle pattern that evokes the shapes of Thor’s armour.  Matching slippers sit beneath the dress’s hem, and a ridiculous amount of jewellery is piled in a coffer on a dressing table, along with a dozen different hair combs and cosmetics.

Jane walks a slow circle around the room, touching a curtain, a bed post, then finally raising a shaking hand to the gown.  “It looks like it’s been tailored for me.  And the shoes are my size.”

Darcy picks up a heavy pendant of filigreed gold, and diamonds.  The central stone is larger than her thumbnail.   “I’m guessing this is Mama Frigga’s work.  It would be the kind of thing she’d do.”

Jane looks at her curiously.  “How do you know?”

Darcy sets the pendant back.  “Um, a guess?  I can’t exactly see Odin ordering up gowns, right?”  She runs a hand over the cosmetics on the dressing table.  Some looked familiar enough, but more were completely unknown to her.  “God, do they actually expect me to, like, do your hair and makeup?”

“Well, I think that’s what a handmaiden tends to do.”  Jane lets Darcy fret for a moment before she smiles.  “We’ll figure it out, Darce.”

She crosses to the window and pulls the curtains aside.  The view of the city is almost, but not quite, the same as the one in the rooms Frigga had conjured for Loki.  Darcy feels no pull to it, but Jane stands in the window for a long time, grinning.

“Darcy, we’re in _Asgard_ ,” Jane says.  “Can you imagine the kinds of things they can do here?  What they know about the universe?”  She turns to Darcy.  “Aren’t you excited?”

“I’m not the one who’s going to be a princess.”  Darcy intends the comment to be a light one, but she can hear the bitterness in her voice.  She forces a smile.  “Anyway, you’re not going to be anything if you don’t get cleaned up.  And if I guess right, there’s going to be a bathtub roughly the size of a swimming pool behind this door.”  She opens the door in question, and, as predicted, there’s a bathroom beyond.  Everything is grey slate and silver, the tub already filled with fragrant, steaming water.

“What about you?” Jane asks.  “I mean, we can share the bed, but do they just think you’ll sleep on the floor?”

Darcy moves through the bathroom.  Another, smaller door is half hidden behind flowing ivy.  She tugs it open; beyond is a smaller bedroom.  “Ta-da.”

Jane fidgets with the hem of her blouse.  “Well, I guess I should get cleaned up, then…”

A knock comes at the door.  Jane opens it, and finds a young Asgardian girl on the other side.  She curtseys, her eyes on the ground.  “The Queen sent me, my Lady.  In case your own handmaiden was feeling unwell.”

Jane flashes Darcy a smile.  “The Queen is kind.  Lady Darcy was just about to lie down while I bathed.  Travel sickness.”

The girl flicks a glance up at Darcy.  “I will attend you, then.  If you wish.”

Jane practically pushes Darcy through the other door, clearly enthralled with the idea of having an actual handmaiden waiting on her.  

The room assigned to Darcy is probably simply by Asgardian standards.  There’s less gold here, but it still peeks out here and there.  The bed is a low single, but its frame is elaborately carved with a pattern of roses, and highlighted here and there with gold, of course.  The bed is made up with plain white linen, and lying atop it is Darcy’s gown.

It is more simply cut than Jane’s, having no velvet trim or embroidery.  Nor is it silk, Darcy thinks, but instead a fine linen of deep green.  The bodice is far less modestly cut than Jane’s gown, and features pintucked layers of fabric arranged in a pattern much like the overlapping shapes of Loki’s armour.  The pattern is just different enough that, unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t notice.  If Darcy hadn’t been certain that Frigga’s hand was involved in the gowns, then she certainly knows it now.

The curtains - plain white linen - are pulled aside from the window already.  Outside is the view Frigga had used in Loki’s rooms, albeit from a lower angle.

Darcy looks up at the ceiling.  Somewhere up there, higher in the palace, are Loki’s real rooms.  She fists her hands in her shirt, filled with the sharp desire to go in search of them right now.

A knock on the door startles her.  The maid doesn’t wait for Darcy’s acknowledgement, just murmurs that she and Jane are finished with the bathroom and withdraws, a slight frown on her face.

Darcy touches her cheeks lightly, finds them wet with tears.  She feels a bone-deep aching, down in the very depths of her.  Too much to ignore, too much to push away.

Laughter drifts through from Jane’s room, and Darcy wipes her cheeks.  Heads into the bathroom and bathes quickly, returns to her room.

She dresses quickly, slides her feet into the matching slippers she finds tucked beneath the bed.  The cosmetics provided for her are much simpler, and it takes her a moment only to powder her face, line her eyes and add some colour to her lips.  There are plain hair combs, as well, which she leaves on the dressing table.  The only jewellery provided for her is a slim silver chain, its links twisted around and around in a serpentine pattern.  Just as she fastens it around her neck, another knock comes at the door.

“Darce?” Jane’s voice comes.  “You decent?”

Darcy opens the door.  Jane looks every inch the princess, her hair coiled and braided high on her head, jewelled combs artfully glimmering amongst the strands.  The dress fits her perfectly, and she’s opted for the simplest jewellery: a collar of gold studded with rubies.

“You look _amazing_ ,” Darcy says.

To her surprise, Jane actually blushes.  “You don’t look half bad yourself.  You’d better watch out, you’re going to have Asgardians crawling all over you.”

Darcy hitches up her bodice reflexively.

“You should just enjoy yourself,” Jane says.  “There’s going to be a feast.  Lots of wine and mead.  Lots of hot guys.  Dancing, music.  Fun, you remember that?”

A knock at the door of Jane’s chambers.  Jane grins, hops up and down like a young girl on her way to a birthday party.  Opens the door to Thor, who looks exactly the same as he had when he left them.  To his credit, Darcy notes that he stares at Jane for a _long_ time before holding out his arm to her.  He looks over Jane’s shoulder at Darcy; more to his credit, he manages not to linger on her chest for more than a heartbeat.

“We will return to collect you after the audience,” Thor says.  “Or I could summon someone to entertain you?”

“I’ll be fine.”  Darcy wants to wish Jane luck, but she suspects that wouldn’t exactly be appropriate.  She settles for a smile, and is rewarded with a radiant grin from Jane.

Darcy only allows her smile to die after the door closes.  

She returns to her room, sits in the window and watches Asgard.  If she unfocuses her eyes, she could almost pretend that she was in Loki’s antechamber again.  

She runs her fingers over and over the chain around her neck, the magic coiling and uncoiling within her, the scent of ozone rising in the room.

 

#

 

“Can you believe this?” Jane asks, wobbling on her heeled slippers as she fights her way out of the crowd.

A passing Asgardian brushes too close to Darcy, grinning as he uses his height advantage to get a good look down her bodice.  Darcy tugs up her dress for what seems like the thousandth time, then pretends to stumble.  She manages to both elbow him in the ribs and step heavily on his foot as she straightens.  She fixes a too-sweet smile on her face, and he drifts back into the crowd.

“C’mon, he was _cute_ ,” Jane says, draining her goblet.  She throws it to the ground, giggling.  “Another!”  A servant is there immediately with a tray of fresh goblets.

Darcy can’t blame her, really.  When Jane had returned from the audience with Odin, she had been pale and shaking.  She’d refused to say anything about what had happened.

Darcy looks around for Thor, finds him on the opposite side of the banqueting hall.  He’s holding a tankard of ale, and is cheering as another, even larger and blonder Asgardian quaffs a tankard without stopping for breath.

“We could just go back to the room,” Darcy says, moving to block Jane’s view of Thor.  Suddenly nothing else seems to matter except the pain in Jane’s eyes.  “Sleep all of this off.”

Jane waves her goblet in the direction of the banquet table.  “Now?  When there’s a half tonne of roast… _something_ to eat?”

“Jane, you don’t have to do this.  If we went and asked Heimdall, he’d send us home right now.  You can just forget about all of this.”

“The way you’ve forgotten?”  Jane sighs as Darcy winces.  “I’m sorry, Darce.  That was uncalled for.”  Her eyes move across the crowd again.  “That’s the trouble, though, Darce.  I can’t.  Forget about him, I mean.  And Odin…well, Thor thinks that he’ll change his mind, in time.  But even if he does, how do I live with all of this?  With _gods_?”

“They’re not gods,” Darcy says.  “And frankly, some of them are real assholes,” she adds as another passerby makes a grab for her ass.  “It’ll be okay, though, Jane.  You and Thor will figure it all out.”  She pulls Jane into a quick hug.

Jane relaxes into the embrace for a second, then stiffens.  When she pulls back, she’s pale, and she presses her fingers to her lips.  “Maybe lying down for a while is a good idea, actually.”

“I’ll take you back.”

Darcy only takes a step before someone steps smoothly between them.  Sif, still clad in her armour.  “I will see the Lady Jane to her chambers,” she says, winding an arm around Jane’s waist.  Jane makes no effort to fight her, just leans bonelessly against the taller woman.  “I will also see a healer come tend her.”

“It’s really okay,” Darcy says.  “It’s kind of my job, right?”

Sif gives her a surprisingly warm smile.  “It is really no trouble.  I know the _Queen_ would wish you to enjoy yourself.  For a little while longer, perhaps one half of your Midgardian hours?”

One hour until Darcy has to go and see Frigga.  Despite the fact that she’s spoken with Frigga before, dread tightens Darcy’s stomach.  Maybe Frigga in person would be different.   Maybe she would be-

A gentle tap on Darcy’s bare should draws her from her thoughts.  As Darcy turns, Fandral carefully skates his fingers down Darcy’s arm, lifts her hand to his lips.  “Would you care to dance, Lady Darcy?”

Darcy looks around the crowd.  “I don’t see anyone dancing.  Or hear any music.”

“Oh, there is always music, if one chooses to hear it.”  Fandral cradles her hand lightly, a clear message that he will force nothing.  “And one must only dance for there to be dancing.”

Darcy knows that she only has to close her fingers over his.  She can see the next hour as though she’s already lived it.  There would be a smaller hall somewhere with musicians.  They would dance, and Darcy could forget everything, just for a little while. 

She removes her hand from Fandral’s.

He dips into a bow.  “Perhaps later, Lady Darcy.  Once you have rested and seen to your mistress.”

Darcy smiles, then slips from the banquet hall.

 

#

 

It is cool in the corridors that wind through the palace, and so silent that even the sounds of Darcy’s soft-soled slippers seem loud.  She knows that she should go and check on Jane, but she found herself wandering aimlessly around the palace instead.  Climbing stairs, peering out of windows here and there.  Guards pacing the hallways nod at her, but don’t question her or try to stop her from going anywhere.

It’s only when she finds the room that she realises what she’s been searching for.  Loki’s rooms.

Cold tingles along her arm when she touches the door handle.  The magic inside her twists, something of it reaching out.  The door unlocks with a hollow click.  Darcy pushes it open, enters.  The door locks again when she closes it behind her.

The room feels immediately familiar to her.  There is less gold here, the dominant colours of the furnishings and decorations emerald green and black.  All of the furniture is of dark, polished wood, so lacking in intricate carvings and gilding that it appears almost plain after all the other rooms she’s seen.

She can see where Frigga borrowed from these rooms to create the rooms opening off Loki’s cell.  The bed is almost identical, and when Darcy peers into the bathroom, she finds it the same.  Even the long workbench is the same, though here it is lined with dozens of tools and vials and other things that Darcy cannot identify, everything standing in a neat arrangement.  

Darcy walks slowly around the rooms, breathing slowly.  Sits down on the foot of the bed, closes her eyes.  Everything smells like smoke and leather, with a faint tang like ozone, like the cold scent of snow that will not melt.

If she keeps her eyes closed, she could easily believe that Loki was here.  Sitting at the workbench, perhaps, or bathing.  That if she just waited, he would be there, his arms around her, his lips on hers.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes.

She moves back on the bed, lies down, curling around a pillow that smells of him.

The chain around her neck abruptly grows cold as ice.

Darcy’s eyes fly open, her heart hammering as she looks around wildly.  If anyone could survive that magic, it would be Loki.  Maybe he’d been here all along, hiding, planning something.

As quickly as the chain had grown cold, now it warms, tingling with what Darcy knows immediately is Frigga’s magic.  Disappointment wells, heavy as lead, but she pushes it away, focuses on the light that is flowing forth from the chain  It is the colour of honey, and flows as thickly to form a small sphere which floats before Darcy.  It bobs up and down, as if in a greeting, then moves to the door.

“I guess I follow you, then?” Darcy asks.

The sphere bobs again.

Darcy pulls herself off the bed reluctantly, smoothing her crumpled skirts as best as she is able.  Follows the light, the door unlocking at her touch, locking again behind her.

 

#

 

The sphere takes Darcy on a winding path through the palace.  Up and down corridors, across walkways, down stairs and then up, up stairs and then down.  After a while, even the corridors seem to shift around her.  It reminds her all too strongly of the labyrinth that had conjured Hel, and fear rises cold within her.  She rubs hard at the scars on her wrist, reminds herself over and over that Hel is gone, that this is Asgard.

Finally, the sphere leads her down a short, darkened corridor.  At its end, a small plain door.  The walls around it are hewn stone.  No gold, none of the pageantry that she’s already come to associate with Asgard.

She looks back, and the fear rises again when she sees that where the cross corridor was, now there is only darkness.

The sphere bobs softly up and down, as though waiting for her to make a decision.  She moves past it - reassuring warmth sliding over her skin as she does - and knocks on the door.  It opens immediately.

The room beyond the door is small, and as plain as the corridor.  The only furniture is a bed and a small table and matching chair; all of made simply from pale wood, the linens on the bed undecorated white.  On the table is a stack of books and a pitcher of wine.  A blank book is open before the chair, half of one page filled with neat, even handwriting.

Another set of doors opens on the far wall, leading to a small garden beyond.  It is walled with the same stone as the room, the sky above starlit.  Around the edges of the garden are several dozen rose bushes: half deep red, the other half an improbable, metallic green.  In the centre of the garden is a fountain spilling water, a peaceful sound.

Sitting on the edge of the fountain is the Queen of Asgard.  She is dressed as simply as her room, her gown white and unadorned, her hair in a wrist-thick braid.  She sits with her back to the room, which Darcy suspects is a deliberate choice, made to give Darcy time to orient herself.

“Come, Darcy,” Frigga says.  “Join me.”

Darcy walks slowly towards the fountain, the rich scent of roses and fertile earth rising around her.  She pauses, fingering one of the green blooms, wonders if it is real.  The petals are plush as velvet, the stem free of thorns.

“Those are the blooms that Loki conjured in his wall, yes,” Frigga says, answering the question that Darcy did not answer.

“This place, it isn’t real, is it?” Darcy asks.  “It’s an illusion.”

“Of a type.”  Frigga is looking at her now.  She is thinner than when Darcy saw her last, her skin pale and shadows heavy beneath her eyes.  “It is a place of seclusion that I find useful from time to time.  Hidden from others, and safe.”

Frigga stands, reaches over to pluck the rose that Darcy touched.  She runs a finger over the stem, and it curves obediently.  She tucks it behind Darcy’s ear.

“My son’s favoured colour looks well on you,” Frigga says, taking her seat again.  “Come, sit with me.”

Darcy hesitates, feeling awkward.  This is the _Queen of Asgard_ , after all.  She starts to dip into a curtsey, manages to tread on her hem instead and falls, catching the edge of the fountain and saving herself from an even more undignified tumble.

She swears that Frigga is suppressing a smile as she rights herself.  “Here, I am not Queen, Darcy.  Think of me only as Loki’s mother.”  The mirth in her eyes fades as she speaks Loki’s name.

Darcy tries, and fails, not to think of the times that she met past boyfriends’ mothers.  One time she managed to dump a bowl of soup into the woman’s lap.  Another time, she actually set fire to a wooden crucifix that had been handed down through the family through seven generations.  _That_ had been a spectacular night, indeed.

And then she realises that she just thought of _Loki_ as a boyfriend.  She wishes she could see his face at that thought.

She just wishes she could see his face.

Her chest tightens, and when Frigga calls her over again, she sits down.  Her palms are grazed and beginning to bleed.  She starts to blot them on her dress, thinks of the burned crucifix.  Even if this place is an illusion, it doesn’t mean that Darcy has to keep on doing stupid things all the time.

“Here.”  Frigga presses her palms to Darcy’s.  Warmth tingles through the grazes, and when Frigga pulls away, Darcy’s hands are healed.  “Better?”

“Neat trick.”  Darcy takes the goblet of wine that Frigga hands her, sips.  Sips again.  Can hold the question in no longer.  “Is he…did he survive?”

Frigga looks down at the wine in her own goblet.  The expression on her face is all the answer that Darcy needs.

Darcy cannot breathe.

The goblet falls from her hands, wine spreading like blood over the flagstones, seeping into the earth beneath the emerald roses.

_Loki is dead.  Loki is gone._

She’s shaking her head, her hair whipping back and forth, the movement spilling the scent of the rose all around her, so thick that it becomes cloying.  She wants to claw it away, wants to tear it to pieces.  Wants to tear everything to pieces.

“Why did you summon me here, then?” she asks.  “Just so you could tell me that? So you could watch my reaction?  Are you as cruel as that?”

Frigga reaches out to Darcy, but Darcy pulls away before she can touch her.  The wine is seeping into the hem of her dress, into her slippers, turning the green fabric black.

“I wanted only for a chance to explain myself,” Frigga says.  “You deserve as much.”

“I deserve as much?”  Darcy’s voice is sharp, and she hears a tiny voice in her head telling her that she’s yelling at the _Queen_.  She continues anyway.  “What about what Loki deserves?  Did no one here care about him at all?  I don’t exactly see anyone mourning him.”

Frigga sets down her goblet.  Smooths her fingers over her skirt.  Embroidery blooms there, a series of pale patterns that swirl in spirals then rise in jagged peaks.  She lifts her hands, and the patterns fade, her skirt plain again.

“As far as anyone knows - apart from you, myself and Thor - Loki is imprisoned in the palace dungeons here in Asgard.  Odin included.”

Darcy stares at Frigga.  “What?  I don’t understand.”

“Sending Loki to Midgard is something that the Allfather would never have allowed.  After everything that happened, he disowned Loki, sentenced him to life imprisonment in the dungeons.  I have oft said that Odin has a plan for everything he does, but I believe that in this, he allowed his anger to overrule his rational mind.  And so, with Loki’s aid, I created a simulacrum, which is what currently resides in his cell in the dungeons.  And I sent Loki himself to Midgard, along with the cell and its enchantments, all hidden from Heimdall with more spells..  The doors that I provided Loki, should he choose to use them.”

“The ability to project out of the cell.  And the rooms.”  Darcy fidgets with her skirt.  “Thor said…he said that there was another enchantment.  One that would allow Loki to walk out of the cell when he had redeemed himself.”

“Yes,” Frigga whispers.

“And Loki walked out of the cell.  Because he intended to sacrifice himself.  For Midgard.  For me.”

Frigga looks at Darcy, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.  “Yes.”

Darcy blinks back tears of her own.  

“I have been in seclusion, trying to find any sign of Loki,” Frigga says.  “The magic that he used returned Hel herself to Helheim without destroying her, and I had hoped that it did the same to Loki.  But even in Helheim, there is nothing.  He is truly gone.”

Frigga is bent over her goblet, looking down into the dark wine.  She looks weighed down by her sorrow, and Darcy realises that Frigga blames herself for this.  For Loki’s mischief, for his anger, for everything he did.  For his death.

“You shared memories with me before,” Darcy says.  “Would you…would you like to see the rest?  His last days?”

When Frigga looks up, her cheeks are wet with tears.  “You would do that?”

“There might be some…intimate things you might not want to see, but yes.  _You_ deserve that.  He was your son, and you tried to do what was best for him.”

To Darcy’s surprise, Frigga envelops her in a tight hug.  Hold her there while her magic moves over Darcy, moves through her.  

Darcy squeezes her eyes shut, not wanting to see any of it.  Frigga skims only lightly through the memories, and Darcy sees only fragments: the image of Loki at the masked ball, Loki working at his benchtop, Loki lying next to Darcy, his body curved around hers.  

Frigga holds her long after the magic has faded.  “Thank you, Darcy.  You gave him happiness.  You saw him, every part of him, and you loved him.”

Those words jolt through Darcy.  She’s never thought about love in the context of her feelings about Loki.  There’s lust, certainly, and sorrow and anger and hurt all tangled together.  But love?

She can feel the walls of the abyss beginning to crumble inside her, everything she’s pushed away threatening to topple in, to drown her.

Frigga draws back.  “You should allow yourself to feel those things, Darcy.  Allow yourself to grieve.”

Darcy wraps her arms around her middle. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

“You’re strong enough, Darcy.  Stronger than you think.”

The wine is drying beneath Darcy’s feet, the soles of her slippers sticky with it.  The goblet has rolled away to lie at the edge of the garden, its rim dented.  “All I know is that I’m good at breaking what I touch.”

“And better at putting the broken things back together.”

 

#

 

When Darcy returns to her assigned rooms, she finds Jane asleep in bed.  Still dressed in her gown and jewels, though her hair has been loosened from the elaborate style the maid fixed it into.  Thor is stretched out next to her on the bed, lying on top of the covers in his armour, as dead asleep as her.  One of his hands is curled around hers, and Darcy cannot fail to note that he chose to lie between Jane and the door.  Protecting her.

Darcy blinks back fresh tears, moves back out of the room.

The magic within her leads her straight to Loki’s chambers, the door unlocking obediently for her, locking again behind her.  Loki’s scent is thicker in the room that she remembered, and she breathes it in deeply.

_Loki is dead.  Loki is gone._

She curls up on the bed, pulls the blankets and sheets up over her head.  In the dark warmth, his scent is even stronger, almost overwhelming.

And she lets the walls of the abyss crumble, emotions rolling over her in a dark tidal wave.

She weeps and she weeps until no more tears will come.

She sinks into sleep so slowly that she’s barely aware of it.  There’s just darkness, and then there’s cold.  Deep, deep cold, a chill that sends her straight past shivering and into the fatal stillness that comes before death.

The sound of water over stones comes through the darkness, and she wonders how any water can be liquid when it is so _cold_.

The magic within her twists and turns, presses out against her skin.  Leading her.

She moves with a thought, and then the darkness is gone.  She is floating above a river, the water a strange, pale silver.  And in that water, beneath it, she can see faces.  All of them still.  All of them dead.

The magic whispers to her, and she knows where she is.

This is Helheim.  The realm of the dead.

Without knowing what she’s doing, she reaches out.  Magic glows faintly around her fingers, deep sapphire, and a sound like a chime echoes through the still realm, across the river that goes on and on and on.

And beneath that river, a dozen or more fainter lights glow emerald green, each one chiming a note deeper than her own, the two notes resonating in perfect harmony.

 

#

 

Darcy wakes in Loki’s bed, those notes still echoing around her.

The magic within her is vibrating, sliding against the inside of her skin, curling around and around.

It knows, and she knows: Loki is not gone.

He has been fragmented, scattered across Helheim, but he is not gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	30. Simulacrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Jane travel to Asgard, where Darcy gets some of the answers that she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who is following along. You are all incredibly awesome.
> 
> We are on the home stretch for this fic now, and the happy ending (of a kind...mwahahahaha) is coming.
> 
> I also have to announce for those who haven't seen it on Tumblr, but BDT is officially going to have a sequel. Which is going to be called "The Star-Filled Sky" and will probably actually be more angsty. But I promise will have a happy ending. I'm all about the angst angst smut angst smut angst, hey that worked out and we can be happy.
> 
> I would like to also point out that BDT has its first piece of fanart, and *damn* is it awesome! You can see gazpants' work [here](http://gazpants.tumblr.com/post/67812899481).

Loki is not dead.

Loki is not gone.

_Loki is not dead._

_Loki is not gone_.

Darcy lies curled up in Loki’s bed, her eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling.  Those words circle around and around in her mind, repeating themselves like a prayer, like a mantra.  As they repeat, something begins to flutter in the empty space behind her sternum.  The feeling is so unfamiliar that it takes her a long time to recognise it as hope, as the belief in _possibility_.

The magic within her turns and turns as the words repeat, presses out against her skin, her bones.  It become frantic, skittering to and fro inside of her, as though it is trying to tell her something.

Thoughts connect suddenly, and she sits bolt upright in bed, her heart thudding hard.  The magic she carries is _Loki’s_ magic.  It knows that he is not gone, and it wants to be returned to him.

Surely she can use it to bring him back from Helheim.

She focuses on the magic.  It slows its frantic scuttling, sending her vague images of what she needs to do.

Darcy is grinning as she lies back down, pulls the sheets and blankets up to her chin.  Her own scent mingles now with the smoke and musk of Loki, the melange of scents making her grin even wider.  This is _right_.  This is what needs to be done.

The fluttering feeling beats inside the cage of her ribs, fluttering like a bird about to be set free.

She flings out her arms across the bed, turns her palms up to the ceiling, and focuses on the magic.

With her eyes closed, she can see it within her.  Deep down in the darkness of her where no light penetrates, it glows, emerald light flowing into sapphire, sapphire into emerald.  It is quieter now, but still agitated, almost vibrating with longing.

She focuses on the magic, visualises her body as an actual cage.  Her mind produces an image of a strange, almost Gothic, creation, with curlicues of wrought iron and a series of spikes along the top.  She focuses on the details just long enough to solidify them, then visualises the cage being opened, the magic within flying free.

She expects a portal to appear - maybe a swirly energy-and-colour vortex, maybe even just a door, like Frigga used.  Instead, to her surprise, she slips free from her body.  Not quite projecting the way Frigga’s ring had allowed; when she looks down at her hands, she can only see them as the faintest trace of a shape.  She’s less then a ghost, less then a shadow.  She can still feel the magic inside her.  It isn’t twisting now, isn’t trying to break free.  It suffuses her entire being.  She is no longer Darcy Lewis, she  _is_ the magic.

Floating next to the bed, she looks down at her physical body.  She looks like she’s sleeping, eyes closed and her breath coming slow and even.  She’s still smiling, though the expression is gentle now, as though she’s merely having a pleasant dream.  She’s begun to gain back the weight she had lost, her body curving and soft again.  If she didn’t look at the scars on her wrist, she would never think that anything had happened to Darcy Lewis at all.

The magic tugs gently at her, pulls her through the corridor.  Her phantom muscles tense involuntarily as she approaches the closed door, expecting to impact the wood.  To her surprise, her spectral self slides directly through, as if the door was nothing more than air.

The magic leads her through corridors, through doors and walls.  It turns sharply, and then they are moving quickly down through the levels of the palace.  Darcy catches glimpses of rooms laden with gold, rooms darkened and lit, Asgardians sleeping or pacing or making love.

And then they are down below the ground, in the silence and darkness of what she knows immediately is the dungeons.

And she knows why the magic brought her here.  She wants to go back, but the magic has control now.  It leads her down the rows of darkened cells.  All of the prisoners she passes are sleeping.  Except the last cell, which is still filled with a low, warm light.

This cell’s occupant is not sleeping.

The cells are open-sided, bounded at each side with a transparent wall like the one that had been on Loki’s Midgardian cell.  Unlike that wall, these ones shimmer with a faint golden light.

Standing close to that faint boundary is the simulacrum of Loki.

Darcy’s heart contracts painfully at sight of him.  She carefully edges closer, keeping to the shadows.

The simulacrum looks down at a shadow on the floor before the cell.  His expression is cold, disdainful.  His hair has been combed back from his face, and hangs loose and untrimmed to his shoulders.  He is dressed in a dark green tunic, black trousers and black boots.  His skin is the same pale shade as Loki’s, his eyes the same piercing green.

There, the similarities end.

This Loki’s face is fixed in a haughty mask, his lips twisting into a sneer.  And his eyes are cold, like chips of ice.  Everything about him is sharp, cold.  Hard.

“To what do I owe this visit?” the Loki simulacrum asks, his voice as cold as his eyes.

Darcy jumps, retreats further into the shadows.  It is only when the shadow before the cell moves that she realises that the simulacrum isn’t talking to her.  

Sitting cross-legged before the cell is Thor.  Mjolnir rests before him, well within arms reach, and his cape puddles on the stones around him.  He sits with his head bent, eyes on the hammer.

“I asked you a question, _Prince of Asgard_ ,” the simulacrum says.  “Have you come to gloat?  Tell me of your adventures?”

Thor’s hands curl into fists.  He presses them hard against his thighs.

“I heard whispers that you were on Midgard again.  Tell me, Thor, was it that woman?”  The simulacrum presses his hands against the barrier.  Magic sparks, but he does not remove his hands, though his palms grow reddened, as though they are burning.  “I do wish I’d had a chance to meet her.  To…visit with her.”

Thor reaches out, wraps one hand around the handle of Mjolnir.

The simulacrum laughs, removes his hands from the barrier.  Behind him in the cell he has a bed, a table and chair, a pile of books.  He picks up a book, seats himself at the table.  Props his legs up, props the book on his thighs and begins lazily paging through.

“The trouble is,” the simulacrum continues, “that Midgardian women are so…fragile.  They bleed and break so easily.”  He licks his thumb, turns a page.  “She is a pretty one, though, your woman, though especially fragile.  I think I would rather lavish my attention on that companion of hers.”  He licks his thumb again, slower, making an obscene parody of turning the next page.  “She looks a woman worth conquering.  For a time.”

Darcy feels her phantom stomach twist.  Loki had had a hand in the creation of this simulacrum.  Had he once thought of her so?

The simulacrum tosses the book into the corner.  The binding loosens, and pages drift across the floor like snow.  He doesn’t notice.  “Will you say nothing, Thor?” he asks, getting to his feet again.  “What is the meaning for this visit, after so long?”

Thor looks up finally.  Darcy can see his eyes shining as they reflect the cell’s light.  “You are all I have left of him.”

The simulacrum frowns.  “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”  Thor stands, every movement looking as though he’s having to drag his weight against ten times the gravity he’s used to.  “It means nothing.”

He moves off in the other direction, leaving the simulacrum staring after him in puzzlement.  

When the sounds of Thor’s footsteps have faded, the simulacrum returns to his chair.  He sits there for a moment, deep in thought, then looks up sharply.  Towards where Darcy is standing.

“Is someone there?” he asks.

The magic, at last, allows Darcy to retreat.  She pays little attention as it guides her back through the palace, and is surprised when she finds herself sliding back into her physical body.

“That’s it?” she asks.

The magic is still now, inside her.  It feels almost content.

“Well, fuck you very much,” Darcy says.  

She hauls herself out of bed, wincing as stiff muscles protest the movement.  She needs help, which right now translates as either Frigga or Thor.  She wanders along corridors, looking for doors that look like they might lead to the crown princes’s rooms.  She even knocks on a few doors that look more ornate than the others, but there’s no answer.

She heads back for the rooms she and Jane were given, finding her way there mostly by luck, since she doesn’t exactly remember the way.  Jane doesn’t move when Darcy shakes her, sleeping too deeply for Darcy to ask her where Thor could be.

Unless she can manage to bump into Thor by chance alone, that idea’s not going to lead her anywhere.  Darcy twists the ring on her finger.  Frigga, then, even though she had no idea how to find those rooms again.  She gives the magic a mental poke, but it’s still quiet, and doesn’t respond.  Darcy heads out into the corridors again, hoping that she’ll manage to find the way somehow.

She takes turnings and stairways at random, going up and down until she has no idea where she even is in the palace.

“And why do you even need such a gigantic palace, anyway?” she grumbles as she approaches another corner.  “It’s not as if-“

She turns the corner, and her words are cut off abruptly as she walks straight into someone, her jaw clicking closed.  She blinks, stares directly at a gold chest plate.  She looks up, daring to hope that chance led her to Thor.

Her heart sinks when she looks up.  Because chance, it seems, has decided to march her to the edge of a cliff, tie her to a block of concrete and toss her over the edge.

She walked straight into Odin.

He’s looking down at her, a look of faint distaste on his face.  It’s hard to tell his expression with the single eye and the patch.  She does know that he’s not happy to see her.

Darcy takes a step back.  Predictably almost falls over her skirts as she sinks into a crooked curtsey.  She tries to think if anyone has told her the correct form of address for Odin.  All her mind helpfully supplies are several choice words that Loki has thought, words she suspects that he wasn’t even aware thinking.

“Um.  Your Majesty?” she tries, straightening.

Odin doesn’t move at all.

“I was looking for Fri-“  Odin’s eye widens, and Darcy quickly changes tack.  “I was looking for Thor,” she amends, deciding that’s probably a safer option.  “I wanted to let him know how Jane is.”

“Oh, yes, you’re the _handmaiden_.”  Odin’s words are clipped and sharp.  “You should have been told that you were not permitted to leave your rooms.”

“Um, no one told us that?”  Darcy smiles what she hopes is a winning smile.  “Can you tell me where Thor is?”

“Thor has been sent away on Asgardian business.”

“Why?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that concerns _you_.”

Darcy blinks, taken aback by his tone.  She amends the ‘not happy to see her’ to ‘sees a gross insect that he wants to scrape off the sole of his shoe’.  “If the realms are all linked by Yggdrasil, doesn’t what happens in one realm affect the others?”

Odin’s eye narrows.  “And what would you know of the realms?”  His words are soft, his tone dangerous.

Darcy looks down, pretends to fuss with her gown, reminds herself that Odin believes Loki to be locked in the dungeons.  That as far as he knows, Loki has not been back to Midgard after the battle of New York, that she and Loki have never been in the same room.  That she’s just a handmaiden, and probably shouldn’t even look him in the eye.

Odin makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like approval, and she realises that, to him, it looks like she’s bowing.  A memory of Loki’s surfaces: of working _so_ hard in the training arena, and getting a dagger move _just so_.  Of looking to his father, proud, only to receive that same noise, before Odin turned to cheer Thor smashing his opponent with a shield.

Something flares in her, and she looks up, meets Odin’s eye.  It takes her a second to realise that it’s anger she’s feeling.

“You know, you have _two_ sons,” she says.  “And you should remember that sometimes, because both of them are good men, just as both of them have their faults.  Just like _anyone_ , even if they pretend to be a god.  And if Thor wants to marry Jane, then you should damn well be happy.  She’s a brilliant and caring woman, not to mention an amazing scientist who could probably help even _Asgard_.  Plus, there’s the simple fact that she’s good for Thor, and she makes him happy.  Even if he is still a little too happy with Mew Mew, he actually smiles and laughs when he’s with her.”  Odin is full-out glaring at her now, his hand so tight on his sceptre that it’s trembling.  Cold washes through her as it dawns on her who she just ranted to.

Odin lifts a hand, and two guards appear as if from nowhere.  “Take this _handmaiden_ back to her rooms, and stand guard until the morning.  At which time, you are to escort both of the _women_ to Heimdall, who will send them back to Midgard.  Both of them are henceforth forbidden from Asgard.”

Darcy stares at him, but is given no chance to say anything as the guards take her by the elbows and march her back to the rooms.

Jane is still sleeping, snoring lightly.  Her hand is still stretched out to where Thor had been sitting, though his chair is empty.  

“Sorry Jane,” Darcy whispers.  “I think I’ve really screwed things up this time for you.”

She goes into her room, collapses onto the bed.  There’s probably a nightgown for her somewhere, but she can’t bring herself to look for it.  She just rolls herself up in the blankets, turns away from the window.

She always knew her mouth would get her into trouble one day, but damn, did it have to be one of the most powerful men in the universe?  Who also happens to be the adoptive father of the man who-

Darcy cuts off that thought before she can finish it.  Pulls the covers over her head, prepares to wait out the night.

 

#

 

The freezer is full of ice cream again.

Darcy had hoped that Jane actually wanting to go to the store was a sign that things were getting better.  Had hoped that Jane would bring back some real food.

All she’d brought back was the same things she’d been ordering from her delivery service.  Ice cream, the most fattening and most expensive.  Tissues, the softest possible.  And wine, the cheapest and sickliest.

Darcy closes the freezer door, opens the fridge, even though she knows what’s in there.  Half a leftover pizza from the previous night, a box of fried rice she’d been unable to touch the night before.  She’s tired of ordering in, even though pizza and Chinese had once been her go-to foods in any situation.

After Heimdall had returned them to Midgard, Jane had pretty much fallen apart.  She had assumed that it was her audience with Odin that had resulted in Thor being sent away and herself and Darcy banished from Asgard.  Darcy had explained to her many times how she had ranted at Odin, but Jane still insisted that it was her fault.  Opened a new carton of ice cream or bottle of wine.

On the second night home, Darcy had installed herself on Jane’s couch.  She’s not even certain that Jane has noticed that she’s sleeping there.

The first week, it had almost been fun.  Ice cream in the middle of the night, soppy movies.  Sometimes, in a cheap-wine haze, Darcy even forgot everything that had happened.

But then at night, she lay down on the hard couch, closed her eyes, and she saw again those lights shining in Helheim.

The nights passed without sleep, and in the morning she still had no idea how she was going to do anything.  The tiny piece of Loki’s magic she carries is useless.  Frigga’s ring is broken.  Thor is gone, and Frigga might as well be.

She’s on her own, and she has no idea what to do.

Darcy is thumbing through Jane’s collection of takeout menus when Jane emerges from her room.  She’s been sleeping, by the state of her hair.  She’s still wearing the same sweatpants and shirt she’s been wearing since they arrived back from Asgard.

They had been allowed to keep their Asgardian gowns, which Darcy had wondered at initially.  It was only after a few days that she realised that no one else would want to wear something worn by Midgardians.  Jane had stripped hers off immediately and tossed it into the corner of her bedroom, where it remained.  Darcy had hung hers up at the back of the wardrobe in her apartment.  Occasionally, when Jane was sleeping deeply, she went back there, just to see it.  To remind herself that it had been real.

“Wine?”  Jane asks, opening a fresh bottle.  This one smells sickly sweet, like the kind of cheap wine you buy in college when you just want to get drunk as quickly as possible.

Darcy shakes her head, and Jane pours herself a glass, drinks half of it in a series of swallows.   She sets down the glass and fetches a carton of triple chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer, then grabs two spoons from the drawer.  She hands one to Darcy, juggles her glass and the carton as she returns to the bedroom.

Darcy follows Jane, her stomach already churning.  It doesn’t help that Jane manages somehow to stay stick thin, while Darcy swears that she wakes up heavier every morning.

In the bedroom, both she and Jane avert their eyes from the pile of grey silk and red velvet in the corner.  Jane flops down onto the bed, tucks her wine glass next to her hip, balancing it with the ease of practice, and opens the ice cream.

Jane manages to somehow eat a huge spoonful of ice cream, sip her wine and turn the television on at the same time.  “Have you seen this?”

Darcy watches for a few minutes until she realises what Jane’s watching.  “ _Vikings_?  Really?”

“It’s cathartic.  Plus it has kickass female characters.”  Jane hands Darcy the ice cream.

Darcy scoops up the smallest possible amount.  

“He’s going to come back,” Jane says.  “I know it.  He’ll finish whatever it is he’s doing, and he’ll come back.  The Bifrost is open again, and things are going to be okay.  Everyone is rebuilding, and it’s all going to be okay.  And if Thor needs to, he’ll abdicate the throne.  Is it even abdicating if you’re king?  I don’t remember.”

Darcy rolls over and opens the drawer of the bedside table.  She finds the vial of pills, drops one of the last two into her hand.  Holds it out to Jane.

Jane makes a face.  “They give me bad dreams.”

“You need to sleep.”

“But I slept last night,” Jane says.  Darcy gives her a _look_.  “The night before?”

“Try the night before that.  Last night you were working on some weird theoretical thing that was supposed to collapse a black hole and harness its energy.  The night before, I’m pretty sure you were planning on drilling to the centre of the Earth.”

“Oh.”  Jane meekly swallows the pill.  “Will you be here when I wake up?”  Her voice is small.

“I’ll be here.”

Darcy takes Jane’s wine and ice cream, sets both on the bedside table.  She sits by Jane until her breathing is deep and even, then pulls the blankets up over her.

The pills are good for at least six hours, so she knows that Jane will be okay until then.  She slips out of Jane’s apartment and goes back to her own.

 

#

 

Darcy closes the book, sets it on top of the teetering stack of other books she’s pillaged from the libraries scattered around the Tower.  She’s pretty sure that she has everything that deals with any kind of mythology of the Underworld, plus she’s spent way too many hours wandering around the parts of the internet that are still accessible.

Descent to the Underworld is, unfortunately, a common theme in mythology, and as far as she can tell, no one ever manages to get there via the same means.  And even looking at the same god or goddess, there were often competing myths featuring different methods again.

All she’s managed to do in way too many hours of looking through myths is compile a huge list of notes.  None of which are any help to her at all.

The only thing she’d found that seemed of any potential use was a myth talking about Odin riding Sleipnir into Helheim.  Which she considered briefly, even going so far as to begin plotting how she could get her hands on Sleipnir.  Given then she was currently not welcome in Asgard, that was probably not a plan that was going anywhere at all.

She sighs, and rubs her eyes.  For all that she’s been berating Jane for her lack of sleep, Darcy has been sleeping even less.  There doesn’t seem to be any point to it when she doesn’t even dream.

She gets up from the floor where she’s been working, her joints creaking.  She climbs the stairs up to the loft section of her apartment, weariness weighing down every step.  Her bed looks inviting, but she makes herself walk past it, go to her wardrobe and select clean clothing.  

She does allow herself a moment to gaze upon her Asgardian gown.  Traces the lines reminiscent of Loki’s armour, trying to remember the feel of his arms around her, his lips against hers.  With every day that passes, it feels more and more like a dream, less and less real.  

Sometimes she even feels as though she’s dreamed it all.  And then she runs her fingers over the scars on her wrist, and she remembers the feeling of Loki’s hand clasping hers as he drew the magic from her and into himself.  Only then does the small piece of magic within her wake, turning over and over as though it is seeking for a way out.

There are still several hours until she calculates Jane will be awake.  Darcy showers quickly, starts to get dressed in the jeans and sweater she picked out.  She’s stepping into the jeans when she stops, and, on impulse, gets the Asgardian gown instead.

The bodice only just fits her now, the tight lacing thrusting her breasts up in a fashion that she wishes Loki were here to see.  She tightens it as much as she can, smooths down the skirt.  Then just stands in front of the mirror for a long time, wondering why her reflection looks so sad.

She’s not even thinking when she walks barefoot through the building.  She supposes that she had some intention of going back to check on Jane, but her body has other ideas.  It heads for the elevators, presses the button for the lobby.  It’s quiet and dark, the only sign of life the blinking red eyes of the security cameras.  She glances up at one, wondering briefly what J.A.R.V.I.S. is doing.  Maybe Stark is being notified right now that a madwoman is wandering around the building.

She surprises herself by the complete lack of anything she feels at that thought.  If she’s mad, then so be it.

The street outside is dark and cool and silent.  Darcy’s feet make no sound against the pavement as she walks through the city.  Again, she has no conscious destination, but she’s not surprised at all when she finds herself at the park.

The remains of the branch of Yggdrasil thrust up into the starlit sky, a living dead silhouette.  Darcy walks across the lawns until she reaches the tree, weaves through the cairns surrounding it.  The scents of lilies and roses hang heavy in the air, an almost soporific melange.  

_This is just a dream.  None of this is real, and it doesn’t matter what I do._

The sense of everything being a dream is so strong that she feels no fear as she approaches the tree.  It’s not like the abyss that had opened within her, it’s more like a barrier has been erected between her and the rest of the universe.  She is untouchable.  She cannot be hurt.  She can do whatever she wants.

It’s only when she lays a hand on the tree, feels it cold and slick beneath her fingers, that that barrier slips away.  Everything flows over her then, the fear most of all, but she cannot lift her hand away.  Cannot move. 

The magic shifts inside of her, and now it feels as though it is a tangled clutch of sharp wire and razor blades.  It twists and twists, and with every movement she feels it opening things up inside of her.  Opening _everything_ up.

She’s weeping without realising, salt tears splashing onto the ground at her feet.  She has no words for this tidal wave of emotion, just has to stay still, be the focal point over which it washes.

Finally, it ceases flowing, and the magic stills.  A thread of it unwinds, moves through her hand and into the tree.  The ground trembles, and she watches as a section of the grass before her fades, becomes a dark mouth in the earth.

Her hand falls away from the tree, then.  She steps forward, and the starlight shifts, allowing her to see that a stairway leads down into the ground.

 _So, this is how it is going to be.  No magic tricks, no armour, nothing but me_.

Darcy doesn’t hesitate.  She closes her eyes, imagines herself as the warrior she had transformed into when she had intended to defeat Hel and save Loki.  Hel has been defeated, but Loki is still to be saved.

A thought surfaces in her mind.  If someone living steps foot into Helheim, will they die?  Will she die?

There is no answer.  And there will be no answer but what happens when she enters the realm.

She twists Frigga’s ring around her finger.  Frigga’s magic had called to Darcy, and Frigga believed that Darcy was the person who could save Loki.  Loki had willingly died for Darcy.

Darcy opens her eyes again.  Looks around the park, towards the Tower.  Wishes she had thought to write Jane a note or something before she had come down here.  She senses that if she turns away, the stairway will vanish, and she will never again be given a chance to try.

“Now or never, then,” Darcy says.  She smooths down her skirt, brushes her hair back from her face.  

Steps onto the stairway, and begins to descend.

 

 

 


	31. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this chapter has taken. For some reason, it's been a tough one to write, and real life has gotten in the way.
> 
> TW for child abuse references in this chapter.

The world around Darcy is reduced to darkness, to cold, to silence.

The tunnel is small; she cannot extend her arms fully to her sides before her hands brush the earthen walls.  The ceiling is barely an inch above her head.  The air is thick with damp, heavy with the scent of wet earth.

The stairs beneath her feet are uneven stone, forcing her to move slowly, carefully judging the depth of each step before she can confidently move down.  Some of the steps crumble beneath her weight, and she clutches at the walls to stop herself from tumbling headfirst down the incline.  Each time she grasps the walls, her fingers sink deep into the earth.  A few inches into the soil is a dense knotwork of roots, smooth and cold as ice to the touch.

At first, she feels as though she can judge the depth she is beneath the ground, can sense the weight of the earth above her head.  She has never been particularly claustrophobic, but she finds herself gasping for breath as that weight increases, convinced that it’s all going to come tumbling down on her, bury her.  Entomb her.

Soon, when she glances back, she cannot see any light at all behind her.  There is only the darkness before her, only the darkness behind her.

It grows colder as she descends, and when she passes her hands before her face, she can feel her breath condensing into frost.  There’s fear, then, swimming just beneath the surface of her mind, like currents beneath a frozen lake, but she does not acknowledge it.  Cannot, because she knows that if she stops and just thinks about what she’s doing, where she’s going, she will turn and run back towards the surface.

She cannot turn back.  She will not.

She owes Loki this.  No one else will save him.  Perhaps no one else can.

She keeps on walking, keeps on descending.

After what seems like forever, the stairs open up onto a small platform.  A low light fills the space, something like the memory of a flickering candle’s light, but drained of all warmth.  There is no source for the light that she can see.

A tunnel stretches from the left side of the platform, its mouth totally dark.  From behind that darkness comes a voice.

_“Darcy?”_

Darcy closes her eyes.  The blackness there is less dense than the darkness in the tunnel.  The voice is achingly familiar.

“You’re not real,” she says.  Her voice does not echo.  “You’re not real, you’re not real.  You’re dead.  I watched you die.”

Something brushes against her cheek.  Calloused fingers, still warm from the sun.  The touch as as familiar, and as impossible, as the voice.  

Darcy opens her eyes.  There is nothing there but the empty tunnel.

_“You don’t have to go down there, sweetheart.  Just come to me, and I’ll show you the way back.  To the sunlight, to your life.  You don’t need to do this.”_

Darcy curls her hands into fists.  “You’re not my father.  He’s dead.”

Laughter, low and sibilant.  _“You’re walking into the land of the dead, sweetheart.  And what do you think is going to happen to you there?  You don’t need to go down there.  You can turn back.  Forget all of this.”_

 _Forget._   Those words echo around Darcy, twining around her like serpents.  Whatever it is that speaks from behind the veil of darkness - be it her father’s shade or something else entirely - it chose exactly the wrong words to use on her.

“Me forgetting is what caused all of this,” Darcy says.  She looks down at Frigga’s ring on her finger.  The metal glows, as though it’s gathering the thin light of the platform.  When she moves it against her skin, it feels warm.  

The voice keeps on talking, but she ignores it, keeps on descending.

The next platform and tunnel, she is prepared for, along with the voice that comes from behind this darkness.  Thin and plaintive, it is the wail of a broken woman.

 _“Darcy, my daughter, my only daughter, you don’t know how much I always wanted you, always needed you.  Just come and see me one last time.  Let me see my little girl.  Let me protect you._ ”

Her mother’s voice, so broken, tugs at her, for all that she steeled herself against it.  She finds herself taking a step towards the tunnel.  Another.

_“That’s it, dear.  Mother will make everything okay.”_

Darcy stops walking.  “Make everything okay?  The way you made everything okay for my brothers?  For me?”

_“Darcy, dear, I granted them peace.  They wanted to be free.  I will help you free yourself of all of your burdens.”_

“You’ll help me be free?  You’ll protect me?”

_“Yes, my dear daughter.  Just one more step.”_

Darcy holds out her hand to the darkness.  She is so close that she can _feel_ the darkness, a dense, viscid barrier in the air.  There’s an odd kind of warmth to it, almost as though it was alive.  And she can feel it moving, twisting, _roiling_.

“My mother never protected me from anything in her life,” Darcy says.  She takes a step back, and the darkness twists again, writhes as if in anger.  “Not once.”

She is running down the stairs now, uncaring of the steps that crumble beneath her feet.  She snatches at the walls only just enough to keep herself from falling flat, and soon her hands are scratched and bleeding, dirt embedded deep beneath her cracked nails.  More platforms and tunnels open up, more familiar voices calling to her, but she simply hurls herself past them, doesn’t give them a chance to hook into her.

When the stairs end, it is so unexpected that her velocity sends her tumbling into her hands and knees.  The ground beneath her is soft and thick and dense.  She rests there a moment, catching her breath, and thick, dark liquid begins to ooze up around her fingers and knees.  She scrambles back to her feet, wipes her hands off as best as she can on her skirt.  Even when her skin appears clean, the stench of the liquid clings to her skin.  It smells something like rotting blood, like old meat thick with worms and decay.

As she straightens completely, she realises that her Asgardian gown has changed.  The dark emerald has faded to a green-tinted grey, the skirt now a ragged conglomeration of silk panels and studded leather.  The bodice is now supported by the same leather, matching vambraces on her arms.  When she takes a step, she sees that her soft slippers have been replaced by heavy boots.

She runs her thumb over Frigga’s ring, over the scars on her wrist.  Both unchanged.

She closes her eyes for a moment, pressing the ring between her fingers hard enough that the metal bends hard against her skin.  Takes a breath, trying to ignore the scent of rot.

It doesn’t matter what she has to do.  It doesn’t matter what she has to sacrifice.  This is for Loki.

When she opens her eyes again, she looks around herself for the first time.  She stands on the short of what looks like a vast sea, though she knows somehow that it is no sea, no ocean, but merely a vastly wide river.  The sky above is deep, velvet black, devoid of star or satellite.  There is no source of light that she can see, and yet a pallid light suffuses everything.

Everything is cold.  Everything is still.

The only sound she can hear is the tripping and skipping of her own heart.

Darcy presses her fingers to her sternum.  Beneath the bone, her heart falters, but it still beats.  Here, in the land of the dead, she is still alive.  Just.

She doesn’t know how long her body will remain alive for.  It will have to be long enough.

The earth turns to mud as she approaches the river, the mud clinging in sticky strings to the soles of her boots, dampening the hem of her gown and dragging the silk down with its weight.  Everything reeks of rot, of decay, of death.

_The whole land is rotting.  This whole place is dying._

“This whole place is dead.”

The three of them speak in eerie unison.  They stand at the very edge of the river, the water moving slightly around their ankles, as though small fishes are nibbling at their flesh.  When Darcy takes a cautious step closer, she sees that there are no fish, only wriggling fingers that slip and slide over their skin.  Seeking to escape?  Seeking to claw the three of them back beneath the water?  She doesn’t know.

Darcy’s mother stands slightly in front of her sons.  She still holds the gun she used to kill herself and the two boys, but the wood and metal has fused to her flesh now, the bones of her forearm twisting smoothly into the barrel.  

She raises the barrel, sights it between Darcy’s eyes.  “You should have been here with us.  You should never have left us, Darcy.”

Darcy’s heart jolts in her chest.  Falls still for the span of a long, breathless moment, then lurches into life again.  “I had to leave.  I couldn’t stay there.”

Her mother smiles, an echo of the smile that used to comfort Darcy when she skinned her knee as a girl.  As Darcy had grown, those smiles had ebbed away, then faded completely.  “I can make everything okay again,” Darcy’s mother says.  She twists her arm, and the fused gun clicks.  Behind her, Darcy’s brothers raise their arms, too, as if preparing for an embrace.  “Just walk towards us.  My daughter.  My child.”

Darcy runs her fingers over her scarred wrist.  “Tell me, mother, when did you find out?  How long did it take you to discover what your husband was doing to your darling daughter?  How long before you realised that it meant that he no longer did it to you?”

Her mother almost - _almost_ \- looks innocent, just for a moment.  Her eyes drop to Darcy’s chest.  “Tell me, dear, how is your heart feeling?  You fairly _glow_ in this place, Darcy.  But not for long.  Not for long.”

Glow.  As though that word is a key, the magic within Darcy uncurls, vibrates.  And, as though a tuning fork has been struck, a responding vibration rises in the air.  A single pure note, echoing from within the three people standing before Darcy.

And Darcy knows that these three people are her mother and brothers - her _memories_ of them, the ones she had given up, shaped by this place.  And at the same time, she also knows that these people, these forms, are a part of Loki, a piece of him.

And she knows what she has to do.

She spreads her hands to her sides.  Closes her eyes.  “Do it.”

The impact of the bullet comes first, followed by the sound of the gun firing.  Her ears ring, the impact slams into her chest.  She curls around it, falls to her knees.  It’s not physical pain, but it paralyses her nonetheless.

It spreads through her like cold lightning, forking along her veins and nerves and bones, slamming into her brain, her mind.

They explode in her mind, all the memories of her mother and her brothers that she gave up.  Not only the memories that she gave to Hel, but so many others that she has suppressed over the years.  

Her mother, walking in on Darcy and her father.  Darcy is perhaps five years old, and her father’s hand is up her skirt.  Her mother looks at them blankly, then closes the door, her footsteps echoing through the house as she walks away.

Her mother bent over a basin of soapy water, scrubbing at a scrap of cloth, her face as red as the blood she is washing out of the underwear.  That memory is so vivid that Darcy can see the tiny pink unicorns printed on the fabric.  They had been her favourites, once.  

Later on, her mother whipped her for ruining the underwear, made her work to earn the money to replace them.

The memories spiral in faster and faster, giving her only glimpses of faces, of places.  

When it is done, the memories feel like a physical weight within her, dragging her down towards the boggy earth.  As she pulls herself to her feet, she feels the weight of her body in a way she never has before.  Is aware of her body as never before, of the echoes of aches, of scars that have faded, bruises that have yellowed and bleached to white.

She is so tired, and all she wants to do is lie down again, close her eyes.  She takes a step, and her eyes close almost involuntarily.  Only the erratic thudding of her heart wakes her, the shock as it skips another beat.  It feels as though her blood has grown viscid as oil, her heart squeezing out every beat with an effort.

The shades of her mother and brothers have vanished, the surface of the river still again.  There’s a relief in that, at least.

Her boots drag heavily through the mud as she approaches the river bank.  The magic twists within her as she peers down into the water, seeking, but there is nothing there but the dark, empty depths.  Whatever there was of Loki to be gleaned from here, she already carries it within her.

There is no way to tell which direction she needs to go in, so she focuses on the magic, lets it guide her.  There are so many memories waiting for her, so many small things that she has forgotten.  A boy who ridiculed her in class once, another boy who invited her to a dance, then stood her up and arrived instead with a new girlfriend, he and his friends laughing at her.  Her dress was the same shade of pink as the unicorns on the underwear she’d bled onto.  

She grows heavier and heavier as she gathers memories, each step taking more effort to drag herself onwards.  It grows harder and harder to stay awake, and the silence between her stuttering heartbeats stretches out longer and longer.

She is dying, in pieces and fragments.

And yet she keeps on going.

Until she reaches the last shade.

She knows, even before she sees him, that it will be her father.

He stands at the edge of the river, dressed in worn jeans and a soft plaid shirt.  If she pressed her face against that shirt, she’d smell smoke, the sour tang of his sweat.  He’s smiling in the way he always had, the way that people in the church had commented on.  Such an affectionate man, so sweet to his daughter, always.

“Darlin’ girl,” he says.  He stretches out his arms, and she is struck by the smallness of him.  In her memories, he was always so tall, so much bigger than she was.  In truth, he stands a little shorter than she does.  “You’ve come to fix what you broke.”

Darcy’s muscles tremble with the effort it takes to keep her too-heavy body upright.  “Broke?”

“You killed me, sweetheart, and for that you gotta pay,” her father says.  “It’s just the way of it.  It’s the rightness of it.”

Darcy shakes her head.  “You’re the one who has to pay, not me.  I did nothing wrong, ever.  Apart from trusting you.”

Her father spreads out his hands, smiling in the way he always used when someone came to collect money for bills.  That smile had dug them deep into debt over the years.  “But sweetheart, I only ever _loved_ you.”

“That wasn’t love.  You have no idea what love is.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to speak, doesn’t give him the opportunity to give her memories back.  This time, she rips them free from him, each one slicing into her heart as it settles into her mind.

This time, the memories seem to go on forever.  So many of them, so many more than she’d ever imagined, going all the way back to the places where her memories are little more than fuzzy impressions, half-formed things that speak only of pain and wrongness.

When it is finally done, her father is gone, and she is so heavy that her legs cannot hold her upright any more.  She sinks to her knees, then falls forward onto her hands.  Her arms shake, and she falls belly-first into the mud, wallowing there.

There is movement in the water at the river’s edge.  The magic yearns towards it, and she knows that she needs to find some way to move, no matter the weight bearing her down.  She claws her way through the mud, her armoured gown catching in the thick stuff again and again.

When she is finally at the water’s edge, her head is pounding, her vision filled with black static.  Her heart beats once, then stills for well over a minute.  She knows that she doesn’t have much longer.

She peers over the edge, down into the dark water.

Loki is there, lying still beneath the surface.  He is bloodless, colourless, and his hair sways slightly around his face, like seaweed stirred by a current.  His eyes are open, unseeing.

The movement that she saw is in the water around him.  Images flicker around him: Thor, Frigga, Odin, even Darcy herself.  Beasts that Darcy can barely imagine, few of them appearing friendly.  There is a razorblade sharpness to them all, the kind of edge that fear hones Darcy’s own memories on.

Drawing on her last reserves of energy, Darcy reaches out a hand towards the water.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” a voice says behind her.

Darcy manages to turn her head just enough to see Hel standing behind her.  Here, she is taller, her skin pallid, her limbs preternaturally long and thin, almost insectile.  Her gown seems made of living darkness, tendrils of shadows clinging to her hips, crawling up her arms and throat in delicate lacelike patterns.  Her eyes are deep pools of oily black; when she turns her head, they look like tunnels leading into an abyss.

“If you touch the water of the river while you still live - even when you just barely live, as you do now - it will drain the remaining life from you.”  Hel speaks the words in a completely expressionless tone.  There is no hunger, no desperation, just a kind of resignation.  She moves closer to Darcy, her feet gliding across the boggy ground, shadows swirling around her.  “It has been some time since anyone of the living realms has dared to walk in my realm.  And for him?”  She nods her head at Loki.  “Few would do anything to save such as him.”

“And they would all be wrong.”  The magic expands within Darcy, feeling something like an internal armour.  It makes it easier for her to lift her head up, to speak.  “He sacrificed himself for me.  He deserves another chance.”

“Once a being has entered Helheim, they do not return.”

“Who says?”

Hel inclines her head.  “I do.”

“Then you can say otherwise.”

Hel laughs, a low echoing sound.  “I suppose there is truth in that.”  She squats down, her knees and elbows jutting up.  “I will admit, there is some amusement in the audacity of a mere human who thinks she can walk into Helheim, take what she wants.  Even if she is a supplicant of mine.”

Hel waves a hand through the air, and Darcy feels the parts of her skin that had blackened tingle, grow cold.

“Kill me.  Take me instead,” Darcy says.  “Do whatever you want to me, but let him live.”

Hel makes a dismissive sound.  “I could take you whenever I like, supplicant.  Do not offer that which is not yours to give.”  Her eyes slide to Loki.  “There is love between the two of you?  What of that?  Would you sacrifice that?”

Darcy’s heart thuds once painfully, then is still.  “No.”

“Hm.”  Hel leans over, stirs the water of the river with a long, bony finger.  The images around Loki shift so that they show only Darcy.  Darcy dancing with him, Darcy curled in his arms, Darcy kissing him.  “Pity.”

Darcy thinks desperately.  The cold Hel called has settled in her wrist, aching there beneath the scars.  “You don’t want my life.  What about my soul?”

Hel’s eyes flick back to her, something like hunger bare in their depths.  “You would bargain your soul with Hel of Helheim, for _him_?”

Darcy looks down at Loki, at his sightless eyes.  She owes him this.

She meets Hel’s black eyes.  “Yes.  For him, yes.”

Hel’s lips peel back, revealing rows and rows of sharp, almost translucent teeth.  “Then, my supplicant, we have a bargain.  With one condition.  He watches me take your soul.”

“No-“ Darcy begins.

Hel lifts a hand, and Darcy’s words stop in her throat, as though her voice is a switch that Hel controls.  “You said yes, supplicant.”

The waters begin to move as Hel approaches the river.  Her shadow gown parts as she walks, revealing the rotting, grey flesh of her legs.  Here and there, the white gleam of bone catches the light, the sight turning Darcy’s stomach.  Hel’s bare feet are more bone than flesh, and they do not sink into the boggy ground at all.

Hel leans down, holds a hand above the water.  The river is roiling now, wavelets smacking against the banks over and over.  From where she is, Darcy can catch only glimpses of the hands reaching up towards the surface.  So many of them, so many and so desperate.

As Hel’s hand passes through the surface of the river, the water stills.  A thin spiral of frost rises from where the water touches her skin, but it appears to cause her no pain, for she continues reaching down.

She presses her palm to Loki’s chest, closes her eyes.

And Loki wakes.

Darcy doesn’t know what she expects.  Fireworks, frost, maybe some light or steam.  There is nothing but Loki, still one moment, and sitting up, waist deep in the water, blinking droplets from his eyes.  He doesn’t look surprised at all to find himself in Helheim, or to see Hel herself.  

It is only when he sees Darcy that his eyes widen, his pupils contracting to pinpricks.  He scrambles out of the water, hindered not at all by the clinging mud, and falls to his knees next to Darcy, pulls her into his arms.

“No no no no,” he says.  Water rises in his throat, bubbles through his words, but it seems not to bother him at all.  He cradles her cheek in his palm, his skin surprisingly warm.  “It was supposed to save you.  You weren’t supposed to die.”  His hand moves down, rests lightly beneath her collarbone.  At the same moment, her heart gives a single, painful thud.  Loki’s eyes widen again.  “You’re not dead.”

“Not feeling so hot, but not quite,” Darcy manages to say.  She tries to smile, but her muscles won’t move.  

Loki’s jaw tightens.  “You walked into Helheim, _living_?  What manner of fool undertakes such a journey?”

“Love makes people do all manner of foolish things, I have found,” Hel says.  She sounds almost bored.

Loki looks down at Darcy.  His hand presses hard against her skin; her heart lurches again beneath his touch.  “Love?”

“I believe the word you are fond of is _sentiment_.”  Hel holds out a hand, her fingers hooked into a claw.  “Sentiment, love, whatever you call it, it is a weakness.”  Her lips part, revealing the points of her teeth.  “It is also a convenient  fulcrum.”

Hel closes her fingers into a fist, and Darcy is jerked from Loki’s arms.  Her body moves, automaton-like, to Hel, without conscious thought or volition.  Hel’s hands move through the air again, and Darcy kneels at her feet, her hands pressed together beneath her chin as if in prayer.

Hel trails a hand down Darcy’s cheek, a cold mockery of the caress that Loki had bestowed only moments earlier.  When she presses her fingers against Darcy’s sternum, Darcy’s heart does not respond, but stays cold and horribly still.

From the position Hel has arranged her in, Darcy can still see Loki.  Can see how pale and still he is, his pupils blown wide now, hands curled into fists by his side.

“You bargained your life,” he asks.  “ _For me_?”

Darcy starts to answer, but Hel pinches her fingers together.  Darcy’s lips close automatically before she can speak so much as a single syllable.

“Oh no, this foolish mortal bargained something more than that.”  Hel drags her fingers down Darcy’s chest, curving around her breast until she comes to the place where, in the living world, Darcy’s heartbeat would be the strongest.  “She bargained her soul.  Her sweet, innocent soul.”

“No!” Loki cries.  “Take whatever you want.  Take _my_ soul, my life, my magic.  Flay the skin from my bones for the rest of eternity, just leave Darcy be.”

“Oh, but my dear prince, the bargain has already been struck.  Your pathetic life for her soul.”  Hel pinches her fingers together, presses forward in an almost gentle motion.  Her fingers slide through Darcy’s skin, a strangely painless, though utterly repellent, action.  She scrapes her claws against the inside of Darcy’s ribs, presses forward again until her fingers rest against the meat of Darcy’s unbeating heart.  “She interests me, little prince. A human who would lie with a god, who would love one.  Who would walk into Helheim itself, alone, to try to save him.  I find her most…intriguing.”

Hel’s claws whisper against the tough sheath of tissue around Darcy’s heart.  In turn, Darcy’s heart gives another lurching beat.

Darcy wants to look away.  Wants to close her eyes, pretend that none of this is happening.  She is so tired, so heavy, and she just wants to sleep.  

She allows herself none of these escapes.

She keeps her eyes fixed on Loki, hopes that he can see in her eyes all the things that she wishes she could say.

That he is worth this sacrifice.  That he deserves this chance.

That she loves him.

Hel presses her fingers deeper into Darcy, her claws pressing into Darcy’s heart.  Pushes again.  Does not go any further, though the ropy muscles of her arms begin to vibrate with the effort she’s making.  There is a deep, grinding pain within Darcy now as Hel puts all of her weight into her effort, but she cannot move further.

With a hiss, Hel rips her fingers from Darcy’s chest.  At the same time, her hold on Darcy snaps, and Darcy falls, boneless, to the ground.  Her heart is shuddering, trying desperately to regain some kind of rhythm.  

Hel stands above Darcy, her face twisted and dark.  Her teeth gnash together, as though she seeks to bite through the very air.

“What’s the matter?” Darcy asks in between gasps for breath.  “Can’t get it up?”

Hel hisses again, a feral sound that tears at the air.  “You have deceived me, human.  If that is what you are.”

“What?” Darcy and Loki ask simultaneously.

Hel bares her teeth at Loki, then crouches next to Darcy, points a finger at Darcy’s chest.  The dark scent of decay rolls off her in waves.  “Your soul already belongs to another.  Is protected from that bond.”

Darcy looks down at her chest.  The wound Hel made is surprisingly small, the blood oozing forth thick and dark.  It reminds me all too much of the black blood that had emanated from the claw marks on her wrist, and she swallows hard.

For a long moment they remain frozen in a tableau.  Darcy lying in the thick, fetid mud, her blood mixing with the dank earth.  Hel crouched by her side, features contorted with rage.  And behind her, Loki, his face a mask of pure confusion.

Darcy expects death now.  Hel’s claws rending her head from her body, perhaps, or being flung into the river to be drowned by the dead.  And she looks past Hel, looks at Loki, and finds that she’s surprisingly okay with that.  If Loki lives, then everything is worth it.

What she does not expect is for Hel to stand, to back away from her. 

“You may have deceived me, little supplicant,” Hel says, pointing a finger still dripping red with Darcy’s blood, “but _I_ keep my bargains.  His life is yours, for what it is worth.”  She draws herself up and up, towering at least eight feet high.  She smiles, and this time her teeth glint like steel.  “If you want him living, then carry him out of Helheim yourself.”

She comes apart in a flurry of torn shadows, leaving only the scent of rotting meat behind.

Darcy stares at the place where Hel had been.  Her body is so heavy again, and it takes all of her effort to turn her head to Loki.  He, too, is looking where Hel was, his eyebrows drawn together.  He blinks once, twice, then his eyes flick to her.

“Hel will not release you that easily,” he says.  “She will seek her payment.”

“I do _not_ need a lecture right now,” Darcy says.  “I made my choice.”

Loki drags his knuckles down the long muscles of his thighs.  He’s dressed in what look like black rags, the fabric still soaking with river water.  “You bargained away your soul, Darcy.  For me.  That is no small thing.”

Darcy tries to reply, but when she takes a breath, the air catches in her throat.  When she begins coughing, it is to find her lungs filling with fluid, rank and stagnant.  It is as though the moisture from the ground is seeping up through her flesh, drowning her slowly.

Loki is at her side immediately, seemingly not slowed at all by whatever oppressive energy suffuses Helheim.  He presses a hand to her forehead, to her throat, her sternum.  Her heart gives one, hard lurch, and she’s coughing again.

“This place is killing you,” Loki says, lifting her into his arms and standing in one smooth movement.  “Living creatures are not made to walk in the realm of the dead.”

Darcy wants to respond - in fact, she has several _perfect_ comebacks in mind - but her vision is greying, the grey turning black at the edges as Loki begins to walk.  Even though he keeps his steps smooth, every tiny movement jolts through her bones, makes her feel as though she is coming apart.  Through tunnel vision, she sees Loki’s face, set hard as stone.

Then blackness descends, and she knows nothing more.

 

 

#

 

When Darcy opens her eyes again, it is to find herself still cradled in Loki’s arms, his hands so tight on her that her skin has gone numb beneath.  They are climbing those black stairs, Loki’s long legs taking three or four steps at a time, seeminly tireless.  A ball of pale emerald light hovers over his head, illuminating the close space of the tunnel.

The horrible dragging weight has lessened, and Darcy is able to move her arms and legs slightly.  Her heart is beating normally again, though it skips and hops every once in a while.  Her lungs feel clear of fluid, though every breath scrapes against the raw flesh of her throat, and when her breath catches and sets her coughing, pain tightens around her ribs.

Loki flicks a glance down at her.  She suspects that she must look much worse than she feels, for he begins to climb faster, fairly leaping up a half dozen stairs at a time.

Soon, Darcy can see the light spilling down onto the tunnel in the distance, and her heart lifts.  They are almost home.

“When we get to Midgard, you have to do whatever trick it is that shields you from Heimdall,” she says.  Her voice is raspy, but Loki seems to understand her well enough, nodding quickly as he continues to climb.

Darcy allows herself to snuggle into his chest, screwing up her nose when she catches the rank scent of Helheim on his skin and clothes.  Then again, she supposes that she hardly smells like a rose herself.

She presses her ear to his chest, listens to his heartbeat and smiles.  The magic still inside her turns and spins, happy as a purring kitten.  She saved Loki from _Helheim_.  She, Darcy Lewis, walked into the land of the dead and brought a god back from life.

On the heels of that thought comes the awareness of the memories that she took back, an avalanche teetering on the edge of collapse.  She pushes that awareness away, just for now.  She’ll deal with it later, but for now, she thinks she deserves a little happiness, at least.

It’ll be okay.  She just knows it.  Everything is going to be okay.

The first touch of sunlight on her face is a balm, pure warmth spilling across her skin.  Loki sets her down onto the grass immediately, and she feels the ground vibrate beneath her as the entrance to the tunnel closes.  She presses her cheek against sun-warmed ground, breathing deeply of the clean scent of green, living things.

 _Home_.  She’s home.

She looks up at Loki.  Behind him, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky, is the blackened remains of the branch of Yggdrasil.  For the first time since the labyrinth, she actually feels happy to see it.  It’s dead, a monument to what had been conquered.

Loki, in comparison to how she feels, looks anything but happy.  He’s standing with his hands fisted on his hips, frowning.  “Darcy, was it like this when you left?”

Darcy rolls up to a sitting position.  The movement pulls at the muscles of her chest, and she looks down to the place where Hel’s fingers had pierced her.  The wound is healed now, a gnarled white scar in its place.  It looks something like a twisted heart, smooth and cool to the touch.  

She lets Loki help her to her feet.  Her legs wobble at first, but with every breath of clean air she takes, they feel stronger.

“Darcy?” Loki asks.  “Have things changed?”

Darcy finally registers the green grass beneath them, the blue sky above.  The air is warm enough that it has to be close to the peak of summer.

“It was winter before,” she says.  “I guess time passes differently in Helheim?”

“So it seems.” Loki begins walking a slow circle around the tree, weaving around the cairns.

More cairns have been erected, Darcy sees, several that look like polished slabs of obsidian dotted amongst the others.  She doesn’t look closely at them.  Doesn’t want to know if Beth’s name is on any of them.  Later, she’ll look, but not right now.

She turns to the familiar silhouette of Stark Tower.  “That hasn’t changed, at least.  And if six months have passed, I should probably go and see Jane.  She’ll have had me on the missing persons list within a day.  Do you think it’s bad taste to pretend to be a ghost?”  When Loki doesn’t answer, she turns to see him standing before one of the obsidian shrines.  This one is surrounded by thickets of white roses.  His face is the same pale shade.  “Loki?”

“You should come and look at this.”

Darcy walks slowly towards the memorial.  “It’s not Jane, is it?”

Loki shakes his head.  When she approaches, he holds out his hand, and she takes it, curls her fingers into his.

Darcy’s own picture has been inset into the obsidian, her name etched in gold beneath.  No dates.

“They don’t just think I’m missing,” Darcy says.  “They think I’m actually dead.”

“Not just that,” Loki says.

Darcy looks down to where he indicates.  A newspaper has been arranged at the base of the shrine, a wreath of roses beside it.  Darcy’s picture is on the front page amongst dozens of others, along with dates inked in black.

“Five years?” Darcy asks.  “I’ve been gone _five years_?”

A sound like thunder answers her.  Loki looks up sharply, hope in his eyes.  That hope fades as light erupts above him, white splintering to the colours of the rainbow.  It takes Darcy a moment to realise that it is the Bifrost being opened.

She looks up at Loki.  “You were supposed to hide yourself!”

“It’s time for me to truly atone,” he says.  He drops a gentle kiss on her forehead.  “Enough hiding. Enough lies.”

The rainbow light comes down, and Loki is pushing Darcy away.  As the Bifrost lands, Darcy realises that Loki has managed to move her out of its path, that he intends to go to Asgard alone.  Leave her behind.

She glances once at Stark Tower, sends a silent apology to Jane, and throws herself into the Bifrost.

 

 

 

 


	32. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who's been reading along with this. We're reaching the end of BDT now - the way I have things planned out, there's only one more chapter to go! But there will be a sequel :)
> 
> TW: references to child abuse in this chapter.

Darcy tumbles from the Bifrost, her forward motion sending her hurtling directly into Loki.  He catches her easily, steadies her on her feet with his hands on her waist.

He shakes his head slightly, looks utterly unsurprised that she’s followed him.  “Are you ever not going to throw yourself headlong into danger?”

Darcy pushes her hair back from her face, noting with distaste that the strands are clotted with the dried mud of Helheim.  “Where you’re concerned, the answer to that is pretty much always going to be a no.”  She grins, loops her hands around his neck.  “Can’t let the girl who tased Thor fall down on her game, right?”

Loki’s eyes search her face, as though he’s looking for an answer hidden beneath the words.

“I’m telling the truth,” Darcy says.  “You’re the liar, remember?  I’m the idiot Midgardian who says whatever she thinks, no filter.”  She raises herself up on tiptoes, kisses him lightly.  “You don’t have to do any of this on your own.  I’m not going to let you.  I walked into Helheim for you, what makes you think I’m going to let you deal with your family alone?  You’re stuck with me.”

Loki’s eyes grow liquid, his brows drawing together, and then he pulls her to him, embracing her fiercely.  Darcy closes her eyes, listens to the steady beating of his heart.  Hears her own heart slow, until it is beating in rhythm with his.

The sound of a throat being cleared pulls her attention away from Loki.  Darcy opens her eyes to see Heimdall watching them, his expression more than slightly perplexed.

“Hi?” Darcy says.

Heimdall inclines his head.  “One of you is - as far as I am aware - already locked in the palace dungeons, and has been for some years.”  His tone is stern, but Heimdall’s hands are loose around his sword.  “The other is forbidden from Asgard for all eternity.”

Loki arches an eyebrow at Darcy.  “Should I ask?”

“You’re locked in the dungeons, and you’re questioning me?”  Darcy shrugs a shoulder.  “I kind of told Odin off.  A lot.”

Loki draws back from her, though he keeps his hands on her arms.  “You chastised the Allfather?”

“He was being a dick to Jane.  And I was pissed off at him about you.  And yeah, technically speaking, he banished from Asgard.”  Darcy turns to Heimdall.  “Could you just, like, pretend that you didn’t see me?  I’ll behave this time.”

She swears she sees Heimdall’s lips twitch.  “I believe you are being permitted to stay.  For now.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, a dozen guards appear, all of them heavily armed.  Every weapon is immediately pointed at Loki.

Loki keeps one of his hands curled into Darcy’s, raises his free hand and falls to his knees.

“I surrender,” he says.

The guards exchange uncertain glances.  “It’s a trick,” one of them says.

“No tricks.”  Loki bends his neck, his whole demeanour submissive.  “Not this time.”

The sound of footsteps running down the Bifrost, and then Thor is there.  The guards part smoothly for him, though none move their weapons away from Loki.  There are shadows beneath Thor’s eyes, new lines around his mouth speaking of too many frowns.  His armour looks battered, even scorched in places.  The leather and metal hang heavy on him, his shoulders bowed beneath its weight.

“Brother?” he asks, his voice uncertain.

Loki looks up, meets Thor’s eyes evenly.  “Brother,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the word.

Emotions war in Thor’s eyes: disbelief, sorrow, a spark of hope.  “We thought you both dead.”

“This time, I _was_ dead,” Loki says.  “Torn apart, scattered around Helheim.”

“Helheim?” Thor asks, frowning.  “Then how…”

Loki nods towards Darcy.

“Darcy?” Thor asks.  “I do not understand.”

Loki’s eyes meet Darcy’s.  “In truth, nor do I.  But Darcy walked into Helheim all the same, and brought me back.”

Thor’s eyes rest on Darcy for a long moment, a weighing gaze, and then he nods slowly.  “Jane has mourned you these five years, as has Erik.”

“I kind of wasn’t expecting to be away so long,” Darcy says.  “Is Jane…okay?”

“She is well,” Thor says.  His eyes move back to Loki.  “I have been commanded to bring the both of you to guarded chambers to await an audience with the King.”

Loki’s fingers tighten around Darcy’s, then he releases her hand, holds both of his out before him.  Darcy is confused, until Thor produces a set of silver cuffs.  He fixes them around Loki’s wrists, the metal sliding into place with a cold click.

“I don’t get a pair of handcuffs?” Darcy asks.  “That’s no fun.”

Loki flashes her a positively wicked smile, and Thor actually chuckles, some of the strain lifting from his face.

“I see your time in Helheim has not changed you, Darcy,” Thor says.

Darcy is aware suddenly of Heimdall’s eyes upon her.  Aware, too, of the scars that pull at her wrist and her breast, the heavy ball of memories that drag her down.  “You’d be surprised.”

Thor turns to Loki, produced a tooled silver and leather muzzle.  “I am sorry for the bindings, brother.”

Loki just lifts his chin, allowing Thor to tie the muzzle in place.  Thor keeps his fingers on Loki’s cheek for a moment, his expression warring between relief and concern.  Then he nods, and turns to lead them to the city.

 

#

 

The last Darcy sees of Loki is him being led in the opposite direction, his head meekly bowed as he walks between the guards, Thor leading the group.  Just before he rounds the corner, he glances back, and she feels the magic within her grow warm, knows that behind the muzzle, he’s smiling at her.  Telling her that things will be okay.

As soon as he’s out of sight, the warmth is replaced by cold fear.  The last time she was in Asgard, things were decidedly _not_ okay, and she can’t see how they’re going to be now.  She had hoped, as they crossed the Bifrost, that she and Loki would be able to be together while they waited, at least, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Two guards had remained with her, and they walk ahead of her, chatting casually as they lead her deep into the palace.  She doesn’t suppose she appears much of a threat, being small and female and Midgardian to boot.  She wonders if they know what she did, wonders if she should tell them.

She half expects a dungeon, but the guards lead her to a small room on a lower level of the palace.  Judging by the dust and general lack of light, she suspects that it’s a little-used area.  Everything is silent, but for the sound of their boots on the floor.  Darcy suppresses a shudder as one of the guards unlocks a door, hoping they’re not planning on just leaving her here to rot.  From what she knows of Odin, it could be an entirely amenable plan to him.

The guard ushers her inside the room.  Warmth tingles over her skin as she crosses the threshold.  So the room is guarded by magic as well as physical locks.  She gets to chance to inspect the magic barrier, the guard closing and locking the door behind her as soon as she’s inside.

The room is comfortable, at least, though plain by Asgardian standards.  The walls are panelled with dark wood, the floor made from a greyish stone warmed with a woven rug of greens and golds.  There are no windows, and apart from the entrance, only one other door.  It stands ajar, allowing her to see the small bathing chamber beyond.  The only furniture is a narrow bed, wardrobe, and desk and chair, all plainly carved from pale wood.  The linens are plain white, but the bed has been furnished lavishly with cushions.

In the small space, she is acutely aware of the stink of Helheim still clinging to her skin and hair.  She strips off her armour-cum-gown, kicking it and her boots into the corner before going into the bathing chamber.

She luxuriates in the bath for a long time, scrubs herself over and over with soap that smells minty and clean and good.  If there are any hidden tricks or magic in the bathroom, she doesn’t care.  All she cares about is being clean again, ridding herself of every scrap of Helheim that clings to her.

When she finally emerges from the bathing chamber, it is to find that her filthy clothes have been removed, and fresh clothing laid out on the bed.  There is a white nightgown made from almost transparent linen, the full fabric gathered beneath the bust with ribbons.  There is also a dark green formal gown of heavier linen, the dark emerald colour revealing Frigga’s hand in having it made.  There is underclothing as well, and matching slippers and a set of plain hair combs.

There is also a tray of food waiting on the desk: a vegetable stew, bread and butter, a glass of pale wine.  Darcy shucks her towel and pulls the nightgown over her head.  The neckline is modest enough, she supposes, but the lacing beneath the bust turns it into something somewhat less modest on her figure.  She settles for simply running her fingers through her hair, then sits down to her meal.

She manages only a few bites of bread before her stomach knots hard.  The bread sits heavy as lead in her, and she swallows hard, half fearing that it’s going to come back up.  She knows that she should probably make herself eat, that her body probably needs the fuel, but she can’t find the energy to force herself.

Her body fairly aches with the need to sleep, but she finds herself pacing back and forth across the room, restless.  She wishes that she had her iPod, or that Asgard at least possessed trashy reality television she could lose herself in for a few hours.  But there’s nothing but the walls, nothing but her own mind and the images it keeps on producing.

Loki in chains.  Loki muzzled.  Loki catatonic in the prison cell beneath Stark Tower.

Loki broken.  Loki dead.

She feels like she should be weeping, but when she touches her cheek, her skin is dry.  Maybe she’s lost the ability to weep, now.  Maybe she’s used up her lifetime of tears.

She’s finally eased the restlessness enough to consider trying to sleep when she feels the magic within her awaken.  It vibrates, turning around within her as though it’s seeking something.  Fatigue instantly forgotten, she focuses on it, tries to get it to communicate to her what it wants.

The magic, of course, tells her no such thing, just keeps turning and turning around.  Darcy gets increasingly frustrated, and begins pacing the room again.  Only when she reaches the far wall does the magic stop moving.

“You want the wall?” she asks.  “Um, okay?”

She reaches out a hand towards the wall, feeling remarkably foolish, and at the same time grateful for the lack of windows in the room.

Sapphire light gathers around her fingers, cool prickling across her skin.  The light flows towards the wall, slides across the surface like liquid.  It shimmers there for a moment, and then the wall shudders.  One moment, there is only the wall and the pool of light.  The next, there is a door.  A door very much like the one Frigga had conjured in order to enter the Asgardian rooms she had conjured for Loki.

Darcy’s heart leaps; she doesn’t hesitate, just turns the door knob and pushes the door open.  Walks through.

The room on the other side of the door is larger than hers, and almost as plain.  The bed is larger, and covered with deep gold velvets.  No windows, but several large oil paintings hang on the wall.  All are landscapes, ranging from a moonlit beach to a snowbound mountain top.

The room is silent and empty, the only sign of occupation a tray of food sitting untouched on a small table.

In the opposite corner, a door stands cracked.  From beyond it, Darcy can hear the sound of water dripping.  She takes a step towards it, and her magic uncoils again, reaching out. She visualises it as a kitten, imagines giving it a friendly stroke.  It just wants to return home.  And there’s only one home she knows now.

Loki’s bathroom is also larger than hers, though nowhere near as luxurious as the bathing chamber Frigga had conjured up.  Loki is sitting on the edge of the bath, his back to the door.  He’s still wearing his muddy, ragged clothes, and his shoulders are slumped, head in his hands.

“Loki?” Darcy asks softly.

He starts, almost falls into the full tub.  “Darcy?  How…?  Did the guards bring you?”

Darcy holds up her hand.  Blue light still glimmers in scraps around her fingers.  “I kind of made a door.  It brought me here.”

Loki blinks.  “You made a door.”

“Your mother showed me.  Kind of, anyway. I think the magic does what it wants, really.  Kind of like someone else I know.”  As if on cue, the magic turns around within her.  “Right now, I think it’s kind of pissed at being stuck in a lowly Midgardian and wants to be back with the rest of its buddies.”

She closes her hand over his wrist.  She expects the magic to flow from her immediately, but strangely, it recoils, curling back in on itself.  The sapphire light flares briefly, then dies.

“Um.” Darcy lifts up her hand, shakes it.  Hits her wrist with her other palm.  Tries again, but nothing happens.  “Maybe you need to do something?”

Loki lays his hand over hers.  Emerald light flickers around his fingers, and in answer, sapphire glows around hers.  “It believe it belongs to you now.”

Darcy holds up her hand again, turns it back and forth.  Points at a towel.  “ _Wingardiaum leviosa!”_

Nothing happens.

“Crap,” she says, shaking her hand again.

Loki chuckles.  “Real magic is somewhat more…complicated.”

“No _patronus_ , then?”  Darcy mock pouts.  “Dammit, you’re no fun.”  She dips a finger into the water in the tub.  It’s warm, and scented with the same minty soap that she had used.  “You know, you actually need to get into the water to get clean.  And, like, take off your clothes.”

Loki looks down at the water.  “I keep imagining that I’m going to come apart.  Drift away.”

Darcy puts her hands on either side of his face, looks into his eyes.  “You’re here, Loki.  I brought you back.”  She runs a hand through his hair, and promptly makes a face as her fingers catch in the mud-clotted strands.  “Come on, time to scrub a dub dub.”

Loki catches at her hand when she reaches for his shirt.  “Will you stay?”

“What about the guards?  Won’t they check on us?”

“They have orders to leave us be until the morning.  Until the audience.”

Darcy smiles.  “Then wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

He frowns.  “What do horses have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know.  Have you _read_ the mythology they attribute to you?”  Darcy grins.  “Or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

His clothing basically disintegrates to threads and dust when she pulls at it, and soon Loki is naked.  He’s dropped weight, his ribs pressing out against his skin, shadows visible even beneath the smudged dirt.  He trembles lightly as she helps him into the bath, and Darcy reminds herself over and over that he’s Asgardian, that he’ll recover from this.

Loki is loathe to let her stop touching him once he’s in the water, grabbing at her hands every time she moves away.  It takes some manoeuvring, but Darcy manages to balance keeping a hand in his while she soaps his skin over and over.  It seems like layers of skin come away along with the dirt, but Loki shows no discomfort.  The bath sluices away the dirt as it comes loose, the water remaining clear and warm around him.

Finally, Loki’s skin is clean, and he relaxes back into the bath for the first time.  Darcy soaps up her hands and begins working on his hair.  Loki lets out a low moan when she digs her fingers into his scalp, begins to gently work at the knots and tangles.  For a while, she fears she’s going to have to find a knife to cut away the worst of it, but something in the soap proves to be as magic as anything else in Asgard, and finally Loki’s hair is clean and smooth flowing again.  An alarming amount of hair comes away in her fingers, but the bath takes the loose strands away as easily as it had the dirt.

Loki grasps at her hand again, holds tight.  His eyes catch the light in the room, gleam emerald.

“You walked into Helheim.  For me,” he says quietly.  “For me.”

“Come on,” Darcy says.  “You should get dry and eat something.  Sleep.”

Loki doesn’t let go of her hand.  “Will you stay?”

“Wild horses, remember?”

He lets her help her out of the bath, dry him.  There are clothes waiting for him as well: black trousers and a loose green shirt.  Loki pulls them on, though he leaves the collar of the shirt unlaced.

He manages to eat about the same amount of his food as Darcy had before he pushes the tray away.

“Worried?” Darcy asks him.

Loki stands, begins pacing back and forth across the room.  For a moment, the old, cold mask flickers over his features, and then he slumps.  “The last time I saw Odin, things did not end…well.”

“Maybe things will be different this time.”

“Odin does not change.  Most of Asgard find change a…difficult thing.”

“Thor changed.”  Darcy grasps Loki’s hand.  “You have.”

Loki looks down at her hand.  Turns it over so he can run his thumb over the scar on her wrist.  “Hel will not rest, her bargain unfulfilled.  You know this?”

“I figured as much.”

“Did you know, when you made the bargain, that it would not be able to be fulfilled?”

“I had no damn idea.”  Darcy presses her hand to the scar over her heart.  Shudders at the memory of Hel’s fingers worming into her.

“You truly would have sacrificed your soul?  For me?”

“Why do you always sound so surprised by that?  By anyone wanting to sacrifice for you?”

“Few would sacrifice for a Frost Giant.  Or for the God of Lies.”

“And yet you were willing to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Loki looks up at her.  “That is different.  That was for you.”

“And who am I?  Just Darcy Lewis.  No one special.  I’m not an Avenger, I’m not a superhero.  I don’t make any difference.”

Loki lifts his free hand to her cheek.  “You make a difference to me.”  He shakes his head slowly, trails his fingers down the curve of her cheek.  “This is one of the first times I have actually touched you.  Flesh to flesh, no projection involved.”

It’s true, though Darcy didn’t realise it until this moment.  Warmth gathers where Loki touches her, spirals down inside of her.  Almost immediately that heaviness inside her moves, memories welling.

Her father had touched her like this, too.  

For a moment, she is back there, her father’s hand on her face, so real that she can feel every callous, see where he’d snapped a nail ragged working in the yard.

Darcy steps back from Loki so rapidly that she almost falls over her own feet.  Loki blinks, his face beginning to freeze into that mask again.

“No, no, it’s not you,” Darcy says quickly.  She swallows against the thin nausea that rises in her throat.  “I took all of those memories back.  Everything my father did.  It’s just that…touches and stuff…it brings it back.  A flashback.”

“Ah.”  Loki folds his hands at his waist, stands stiffly.  “Perhaps you should-“

“Perhaps you should let _me_ touch _you_.”  Darcy smiles, though the expression feels as though it’s slipping.  “My first year of college, I went to a therapist.  I was determined that I’d find some way to work through this.  She was only a few years out of training, and I think she was flailing as much as I was, so it didn’t really go that far.  But she did suggest that maybe it would be easier…if I was in control.”

Loki quirks an eyebrow.

“Not like that!”  Darcy grabs a pillow from the bed and tosses it at him.  He sidesteps easily.  “Well, maybe that,” she adds, feeling her cheeks heat.  In Frigga’s conjured rooms, everything had felt easier, as though it was simply a dream.  Here, everything feels almost too real.  “But maybe just this?”

Darcy moves close to Loki again, his eyes tracking her as she walks.  There’s a rawness in his expression, a vulnerability that she doubts anyone has ever seen.  Perhaps Frigga, but no one else.  No one but Darcy.  This Loki was hers alone.

Darcy lifts her hand, imitating the touch that Loki had just used.  Loki’s cheek is cool beneath her fingers, his skin soft and smooth.  She can smell the mint from the bath, and deeper, the smoky musk of his skin.  She slides her fingers along the plane of his cheek, down to his lips.  Traces them softly, his breath shuddering lightly against her skin.  He doesn’t move, apart from that, just watches her and lets do as she wishes.

She stands on her toes, presses her lips lightly against Loki’s.  She’s aware of the heaviness of memories waiting to drag her down, and she keeps her eyes open, focusing on Loki’s face as she kissed him.  Reminds herself over and over again that her father is dead, that he cannot touch her now.

Something cold slides down her spine at the thought, and she moves forward, needing to be able to feel Loki’s living body against hers.  She’s surprised to feel his heart hammering; on the surface, he looks so collected, so calm.

She slides her hands to his shoulders, pulls back just enough to be able to look into his eyes.

“We don’t have to…if you don’t want to…” Loki says, fumbling for words.  “If it is hard…?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow.  “If it is _hard_?”

Loki breaks into an abashed grin.  “I did not mean that.”

“And they call you Silvertongue.”  Darcy grins back at him.  Impulsively, she slides a hand through his hair, pushing the curling strands back from his face.  He leans into the touch as though starved.  “We don’t know what’s going to happen.  If this is all we get, then I want it to be something good.”

“Something good,” Loki echoes.

This time, when she kisses him, he kisses her back, presses his hands to her waist.  His movements are tentative, always waiting for her murmured assent before he continues. 

They move over to the bed together, lie down side by side.  Darcy is immediately half smothered by an avalanche of cushions, most of which she tosses to the floor.

“Seriously, why do you _need_ so many cushions?” she asks.

Loki smiles, ducking as she tosses another one. “You should see my actual rooms.”

“Actually, I kind of have.”

He blinks.  “There is a spell on those rooms, a long-lasting spell that refuses access to anyone I do not trust.  Which is, basically, everyone.  Not even my mother is allowed access.”

Darcy leas back on the remaining cushions, grins.  “Well, it let me in.” She looks up at him from underneath her lashes.  “I even slept in your bed.”

Loki’s mouth comes down on hers, and this time it’s okay, because here, she’s surrounded by the scent of him.  He pulls back almost immediately, looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “It was just the thought of you…my bed…”

“It’s okay.  I tell the truth, okay?  If something is bad, you’ll know, either by my reaction or me telling you.”

Loki runs his thumb over her lower lip.  “The truth.  An interesting concept.”

“And one you use far more than you care to admit.  It’s handy, being able to hide the truth in what people think are lies.  Like how much you love Thor, and your mother.”

Loki looks away.  When he looks back at her, there’s no trace of coldness to him at all, just a warmth that radiates from every part of him.  “Even my mother could rarely see through it.  Easier to believe of her sons what she always had.”

“And she loves you anyway.”

Loki’s hands fist in the covers.

Darcy swings herself around so she’s seated in his lap.  “It’s going to be okay.  I don’t know how, but we’ll make it okay somehow.”

She’s managed to arrange herself so that her chest is exactly at Loki’s eye height, and of course the damn nightgown is practically transparent.  Loki actually makes an effort to look up at her face, which she has to commend him on.

Then she thinks _screw it_ and pulls the nightgown over her head, tosses it after the cushions.  “I’ll tell you if anything is bad.  I promise.”

Loki slides his hands around her, rests his cheek on the upper curve of her breasts.  His breath is cool, then warm, against her skin, bringing delightful shivers winding through her.

“How did I ever deserve you?” he whispers against her skin.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Darcy says with a grin.  “Now, I think you have too many clothes on?”

That wicked, wicked grin of his blooms, and he leans back.  “I believe you were the one who was going to be in control, Ms Lewis?” he asks, folding his hands behind his head.

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be, then?”

It takes Darcy moments only to remove Loki’s shirt, and , despite his words, he’s the one who pulls his trousers down and flings them away.  When he is naked and lying back on the bed again, Darcy sits on his thighs and lets her gaze roam over him.  Yes, he is slightly thinner, but she can already see the health beginning to return to him.  And nothing can truly diminish his beauty.

“I’m not sure if you’re supposed to tell a guy that he’s beautiful,” Darcy says, skating a hand up the side of his hip, past his waist and up his ribs.  “But hey, you’re a god, anyway, and you’re damn beautiful.  I thought it the first time I saw you in a shared dream.  No wonder they worshipped you.”

Loki’s hands imitate the path she took, coming to rest on her ribs, his thumbs curved beneath her breasts.  “As I would worship you.  _Darcy._ ”  He says her name slowly, as though he is tasting it on his tongue.

She can’t hold back then.  She leans forward, kisses him deeply.  And this time, her magic moves to stand between her and the weight of memories.  There are flashes: a touch here, a remembered slant of sunlight on bleeding skin there, but Loki is more real, more vivid.

Always before, skin to skin with someone, she has had to be drunk, or stoned, or just completely disassociated from what’s happening.  But now she’s fully here, fully with Loki.  And even though the nagging thought keeps winding around the back of her mind - the knowledge that this may be the only time she truly gets to lie with Loki - she’s able to push that away, focus just on him.

She finds herself as starved for touch as he seems to be.  Their hands move over each other, touching everywhere they can reach.  Darcy is amazed all over again at how soft Loki’s skin is, the contrast between that softness and the taut muscle beneath making her want to touch him more and more.  She wants to find the places to touch that make his breath catch in his throat, make him hum against her skin.  She rocks her hips against him and finds him already hard, his hips moving rhythmically beneath her.  She moves her hips again, sliding her centre against the length of him, and he catches at her hips.

“You do that again, and I will not last,” he says.

“I thought you were supposed to be a god,” she teases, biting at his lip.

“Not even a god could restrain himself with one such as you.”  

Loki reaches up to capture her mouth, his tongue delving deep, dancing against her own.  His hands cup her breasts, fingers suddenly cold against her nipples, and that sends a bolt of pleasure straight through her, and immediately she’s thinking that _she’s_ the one who’s not going to last.

“Cheater,” Darcy whispers against Loki’s lips.

He smiles, does it again, trailing his fingers down her stomach this time.  He brushes them against her clit briefly, making her jump, then plunges them inside her, imitating the rhythm of his tongue.

Darcy is pretty sure that her eyes roll back in her head, because those cold, cold fingers are reaching inside her, curling back until they find just the right spot, and then his thumb circles her clit once, twice, and she’s coming, her muscles spasming against his hand.

“Still cheating,” Darcy says when she finally catches her breath again.

He grins.  Withdraws his fingers and licks them clean with relish.  “I haven’t even begun cheating.  Trickster, remember?”

“How could I forget?”  Darcy reaches between them, curls her fingers around him, lines him up with her and sinks down.  Smiles when she sees his eyes unfocus, pupils dilate.  “And I have a few tricks of my own.”

Loki sits up, crosses his legs beneath her and wraps his arms around her waist.  “I cannot wait to discover them all.”  He kisses the corner of her mouth, the place where her pulse beats, her collarbone.  Nips there lightly with his teeth.  

In response, she tightens her muscles around him, and is rewarded with a jump, his teeth pressing harder against her skin, hard enough that she knows she’ll be left with a mark.  And she doesn’t care, would wear any mark that he gave her proudly.

Darcy buries her face in his neck, breathes in the scent of him.  “I love you.”

Loki exhales slowly against her skin, his hands tight around her waist.  “I love you, too, Darcy.”  He pulls back, presses his forehead to hers.  “My Darcy.”

“My Loki.”

He starts moving then in earnest, his eyes on hers the whole time.  And it’s like nothing else Darcy has ever experienced, being this close to someone, being this open.  

When she comes again, he follows soon after, spilling inside her in a series of hard thrusts.  

They remain locked together for an endless moment, their breathing slowly returning to normal, their skin cooling.  Loki lowers them to the cushions, pulls the blankets over them.  They lie facing each other, one of Loki’s thighs between Darcy’s legs.  

Darcy is blinking slowly, her fatigue slowly getting the best of her.  “Wake me before morning?”

Loki murmurs something, and when she forces her eyes open for a moment, she sees that his are closed.  She considers going back to her rooms now, but when she tries to as much as move an inch away from Loki, his arms tighten around her, pulling her back.

She relaxes back into his arms, snuggles into the cushions.  They don’t seem quite so annoying right now, but cosy instead, a nice cosy nest.  Maybe she can see the point of all of them after all, she thinks as she slides into deep, content sleep.


	33. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delays in getting this final chapter up!
> 
> And huge thanks to everyone who's read along with this, to everyone who's left kudos or subscribed or commented on Tumblr. You guys are the best. You've all made me love writing again.

Darcy wakes to a feeling of wrongness.

It takes her a moment to work out what feels so wrong.  She feels _safe_.  Completely and utterly safe, in a way that she never has before.

Loki’s body is curved around hers; he lies with his chest pressed against her back, his legs twined with hers and one arm looped around her waist.  The tide of his breath moves on the back of her neck: warm, then cool, then warm again.  The temperature cycling is odd, but strangely soothing.

Darcy slides her hand along Loki’s arm, curls her fingers into his.  When she presses a kiss to his knuckles, he murmurs in his sleep, pulls her even closer to him.  His breathing breaks rhythm momentarily, then slides back into that deep, even rhythm again.

Darcy lets her eyes drift closed again.  She can feel Loki half-hard against her, and is tempted to see if she can coax him into full hardness.  Soon, she thinks, after she’s dozed just a little bit more…

The knock comes on the door just as she’s falling asleep.  Darcy starts awake, her eyes going directly to the place where she had conjured the door the previous night.  She had been somewhat too _occupied_ to notice whether the door had still been there when she fell asleep, but there is nothing there not but blank, unbroken wall.  The knock sounds again, and she reaches for her magic, knowing that she needs to conjure the door again before the guards find her here in Loki’s room.  The magic slides away from her, slick as mercury.

When the door opens, she feels Loki come instantly awake.  His body tenses, his arm tightening around her waist and his breath cooling against her skin.

Darcy freezes, not sure whether she should try to bolt for the bathroom, or simply hide beneath the sheets.  

She expects a guard, but instead it is Frigga who enters the room, resplendent in a gown that looks woven from pure gold.  Thin plated of chased metal curve around her waist and shoulders, and she wears a sword at one hip, the hilt filigreed with gold.

Darcy feels her cheeks flush, instantly aware of the fact that both she and Loki are naked, their clothes strewn around the room.  A quick glance confirms that, at least, the blankets cover most of them.

Frigga pauses just inside the door, her expression unreadable.  Loki’s arm tightens around Darcy’s waist, and she feels his muscles grow tense, his body poised on the edge of either fighting or fleeing.

Frigga’s forehead creases as her gaze sweeps around the room.  When she reaches the place where Darcy conjured the door, she nods slowly.  “Shall I give you a moment to dress?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just steps out into the corridor and closes the door behind her.  Darcy immediately claws her way out of bed and scrambles for her nightgown.  She yanks it over her head, her hair crackling with static as she emerges.

Loki watches her as she drags her fingers through her hair, swearing as her nails catch on tangles.  In her haste to get out of bed, she’d managed to pull the blankets off him as well.  He reclines there, unashamedly naked, an amused look on his face.  There’s tension in the long muscles of his thighs, in the set of his fingers, and Darcy knows that the amusement is only another of his masks.  Behind it, he is as apprehensive as she is.

Darcy tosses his clothes at him.  “You were supposed to wake me, remember?”

Loki moves as slowly as though he has all the time in the world.  “I suppose you wore me out.”

The cushions are scattered over the floor still.  Darcy picks up one that looks pleasingly well-stuffed and flings it at him.  He’s focused on pulling on his trousers, and the cushions thumps him square on the side of the head.  It makes quite a satisfying sound in the small room, and so Darcy follows it with another.  He is expecting this one, and catches it easily, but she sees some of the tension in him ease.

“Cheat.”  Darcy pokes out her tongue at him, then turns to the wall, reaching for her magic.  She did _not_ need to be in a semi-transparent nightgown in front of the Queen of Asgard.  Bad enough that she walked in on them naked.  The magic slides away from her again, and she sighs.  “You could at least have warned me that your mother was likely to walk in on us.”

Loki pulls his shirt over his head.  “I did not expect her.”  He smooths his hands over his hair, and the strands untangle effortlessly.  “This room is warded so I cannot sense anyone coming.”

Darcy lifts a tangled lock of her own hair.  “You have to teach me that trick sometime.”  She pushes her hair back, knots it up as well as she can without any ties or clips.  “Can you open the doorway for me so I can at least get changed?  The magic is being stubborn this morning.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”  Loki grins.  He flares his fingers, focuses for a moment, and then shakes his head.  “The warding around the room prevents me from opening a doorway anywhere.  How _did_ you make that doorway?”

“Beats me,” Darcy says.  “It wanted to, and so it did.”  She plucks at her nightgown.  “Can you at least conjure me a more modest gown?  Fix my hair?”

Loki grins.  “You look beautiful as you are.”

“Not to your _mother_.”

“She’s not my mother.”  The words come out thinly, something said so often that they have lost shape and dimension.  Loki’s fingers dance in the air, and emerald light glows around Darcy.

Cold tingles over her skin, and when she looks down, she’s wearing a simple dark green velvet gown, matching slippers on her feet.  Her hair has been fixed in a knot similar to the one she attempted, the tangles gone.

“Thank you,” Darcy says.

“I still prefer the nightgown,” Loki says, pulling Darcy into his lap.  He wraps his arms around her and presses his face into her neck, breathing deeply.  Slowly, Darcy feels Loki’s skin and breath warm, until he is the same temperature she is.  His breathing grows even deeper, and Darcy realises that he’s breathing in the scent of her skin.  It’s strangely and unexpectedly erotic, and she finds herself wishing very much that Frigga wasn’t waiting outside the room.  That they could just be locked in here for a week, a month, a year.  Forever.

When Frigga knocks again, Darcy tries to untangle herself from Loki.  His arms tighten, keeping her where she is as he calls his assent.

“My Queen,” he says coolly, inclining his head to Frigga.

He’s wearing that cold mask of his.  Darcy elbows him hard in the ribs.  “Don’t be like that.  She’s your _mother_.”

“She’s not-“ Loki begins.

Darcy places a hand over his mouth.  “She is your mother, Loki.  Your mother who’s thought you dead for the last five years.”

Loki’s eyes narrow.

“If my mother was alive, I’d be making the most of this.”  Darcy removes her hand from Loki’s mouth, cradles his cheek.  Slides from his lap to sit at his side.  “You have no idea what’s going to happen when we step out of this room.  You might never get this chance again.  Don’t regret not taking it.”

Loki blinks once, twice, and then his mask fractures.  He’s across the room in two strides, and practically flings himself into Frigga’s arms.  She holds her son tightly, tears shining on her cheeks.  Her eyes meet Darcy’s over Loki’s shoulder, and she mouths two words: _thank you_.

Darcy smiles back.  Tries not to think about whether her own mother had ever looked that happy to see her.  _Blood doesn’t really count for anything, when it comes down to it.  Your family should be the one you choose, not the one that’s chosen for you._

After a long time, Frigga steps back so she can hold Loki at arm’s length.  “It is good to see you, my son.”

Loki’s lips move, shaping silent words before he finds the one he wants.  The one he needs.  “Mother.”

“Always.”  Frigga smooths Loki’s hair back from his forehead, though it scarcely needs tidying.  He leans unconsciously into the gesture.  “I never thought I would hear that from you again.”

Loki allows himself another moment of contact with Frigga, then steps back, folding his hands at his waist in the exact position they had been held in the fetters.  “So, what punishment does the Allfather plan for me this time?  Is it to be the dungeons, or the sword this time?  I will bend my neck gladly to the Allfather’s blade, only keep Darcy safe from him.  I know what he thinks of Midgardians in general, and I cannot see him taking kindly to one that I love.”

 _Love_.  Darcy feels a little burst of warmth in her at that declaration.  “Loki, I-“

Frigga holds up a hand.  “Loki, you will find Asgard much changed.”

“And by the way, I can speak for myself.”  Darcy stands up, moves to Loki’s side.  Takes his hands, forcing them out of the shackled position.  “And if you’re going to stand trial before Odin, then so am I.”

“Well,” Frigga says, her lips curving into a slight smile.  “I believe you may indeed have found your match, my son.”

“No games, Mother, please.”  Loki curls his hand into Darcy’s.  His skin is cooler now.  “Just take us to stand before the Allfather.”

“There is to be no trial,” Frigga says.

“What?”  Loki’s forehead is creased.  “I do not understand.”

“These are things that will be simpler to show than to explain,” Frigga says.  “But first, I am curious.  I warded both these rooms and the rooms we sent you to, Darcy.  Creating a passage between the two should have been impossible.”  Her eyes are on Loki, suspicious.

“It was me,” Darcy says.  “Well, the magic in me.  When Loki…when he defeated Hel, he left a bit of magic inside me.  I thought that maybe it was trying to get back to him.  I didn’t mean to.  I’m sorry.”

Frigga regards her for a long moment, then holds out a hand, palm up.  “May I?”

Darcy glances at Loki.  He nods, squeezes her hand.  She places her free hand on Frigga’s.  The Queen’s palm is warm and firm, marked by hard callouses.  Warmth tingles against Darcy’s skin, and the magic curls and uncurls within her.

“The connection between the two of you must be strong indeed,” Frigga says.  She curls her fingers around Darcy’s, squeezes lightly.  “I can tell that it was once Loki’s magic, but it is now indeed yours, Darcy. And most unusual for it.  A Midgardian carrying Asgardian magic.”  She shakes her head slowly.  “Perhaps there is some Asgardian blood in your family.”

Darcy’s stomach drops.  “You mean Loki could be like my great great great grandfather or something?”

“No, I sense no blood bond between the two of you.  Many Asgardians have visited Midgard, taken Midgardian lovers.”  Warmth tingles against Darcy’s palm again.  This time the magic bristles, grows a hard shell.  “There is something…darker at the heart of the magic.  Something I cannot reach.”

Cold prickles down Darcy’s spine, centres on the scars Hel gave her.  “Could Hel have twisted it?  She was pretty pissed at me, after all.”

“It is possible.”  Frigga squeezes Darcy’s hand again, then releases her.  “It could simply be an artefact of walking through Helheim.  It seems mostly inert.”

“Mostly?  Well, that’s comforting,” Darcy says.  Realises immediately that she just snarked the _Queen of Asgard_.  She ducks her head.  “God, I’m sorry.  I kind of don’t have a filter between my brain and mouth.”

To her surprise, when Darcy looks up, Frigga is grinning.  “I can see why you like her, Loki.  And Darcy, never worry about what you say to me.  I appreciate honesty.”

“Um, thanks?”  Darcy can’t help but smile back.  “Can’t you just force the magic back into Loki, though?  I mean, I’ve actually blown up my microwave when I forgot to remove some foil from a bowl.  I’m not sure I’m the kind of person who should be trusted with magic.”

“Oh, I think you will grow well into it and with it.” Frigga smiles gently.  “Though I do warn you, Loki has never been the most patient of teachers.”

“You’d teach me?” Darcy grins at Loki, bounces on her toes.  “Really?”

“I suppose I have no choice,” Loki says dryly.  His words are mock annoyed, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes.

Darcy bounces again, the magic bouncing as well inside her.  She’s suddenly filled with ideas of the things she could do.  And then she looks past Loki, sees the blank walls of the room, remembers that they’re locked in a warded room in Asgard, waiting for who knows what to happen.  Her smile dies.

Frigga squeezes Darcy’s shoulder gently.  “It will be well, Darcy.”  She steps back.  “I wish to show you both some things, and it is best that we remain unseen.”  She grasps Darcy and Loki’s linked hands.  “May I?”  They both nod, and golden light flows out over the three of them.

As the light flows over Darcy, the world around her changes.  Everything feels separate, as though she’s a step away from reality.  Even the touch of Loki’s hand against hers feels distant, as though her skin is partially numb.  When she looks at Loki and Frigga, they both appear solid and real.

“Others will not be able to see, hear or touch us,” Frigga says, removing her hand.

“The last time you used this particular magic, I recall an incident that resulted in Thor having to scrub the floor of his room for a very long time,” Loki says.

Frigga presses her lips together, her eyes sparkling.  “When Loki was a child, he often had difficulty controlling his magic around his brother.  It was part of a test, and Loki…surprised Thor.  Rather too much.”

“Remind me to get Thor drunk sometime and ask him about that one,” Darcy says.

“Best of luck in that endeavour,” Loki says.  “You will require many barrels of ale.”  He looks thoughtful.  “And please invite me along.”  He grins quickly.

Frigga leads them towards the door.  Darcy assumes that she’s going to open it and lead them through, but instead Frigga walks straight _through_ it.  Loki follows quickly.  Darcy hesitates, then steels herself and walks towards the door.  If she was going to get used to having magic, she’s going to have to get used to doing things like this, she supposes, even when her brain is screaming at her that she’s going to smack straight into the door.

Instead, there’s only a vague sensation of cold sliding over her skin as she walks straight through the wood and comes out into the corridor.  Frigga and Loki are waiting there, Loki grinning like a kid let loose in a cookie factory.  Two guards are stationed outside the door; both stare straight ahead, bored expressions on their faces.

“I seem to remember that there’s something else you can do like this,” Loki says.  He approaches one of the guards and gently blows in his face.  His breath moves nothing, and yet the guard twitches suddenly, his eyes darting about the corridor.  Loki laughs.

“You’d play tricks even on the way to your own execution,” Darcy says.

“God of mischief, remember?”  Loki blows in the guard’s face again.  The man twitches again, his armour clattering, drawing a perplexed look from his companion.  “If you only have a moment to live, you might as well enjoy it.”

“Learning magic from you is either going to kill me or drive me crazy, isn’t it?” Darcy asks.

“I believe I learned that little piece of philosophy from _you_ , my love,” Loki says.

Darcy makes a face at him.

Behind Loki, Frigga is trying - without much success - to hide a grin.  “Come, children,” she says, and leads the way away from the rooms.

Frigga leads them through empty corridors.  Darcy slips her hand into Loki’s as they walk, as much for her comfort as his.  She keeps remembering the last time she was in Asgard, and running into Odin.  Even though Frigga’s magic means that no one should be able to see them, she suspects that Odin would find a way to see through it.

When they round a corner, Loki’s hand tightens on Darcy’s.  “You said there was to be no trial.  Does the Allfather await with his sword, instead?”

“Trust me,” Frigga says.  “There is no waiting sword.  Simply things I wish you to see.”

The throne room is so vast that Darcy has to pause in the doorway for a moment, just adjusting to the size of it.  It is empty and silent, the ambient light low and warm.  Frigga walks directly to the throne, Loki and Darcy trailing in her wake.

Loki’s demeanour changes entirely as he approaches the throne.  His spine stiffens, and he slides his hand out of Darcy’s, his hands fisting by his sides.  Emerald light flickers at his fingertips, and Darcy half expects him to manifest his Asgardian armour, but he sighs and relaxes his fingers without conjuring anything.

“I do not need a reminder of the things for which I was deemed not worthy,” he says.

“Look closer,” Frigga says.

Loki ascends the stairs to the throne slowly, each step heavy.  When he finally stands next to the throne, he looks down at it for a long time.  When he looks up at Frigga, his forehead is creased.  “What has happened?”

Darcy moves close enough to see that the throne is covered with a thick layer of dust, untouched for months, or maybe years.

“Come,” Frigga says.

She leads them through into a smaller adjoining chamber.  This one is plain, at least by Asgardian standards, and holds only a circle of twelve chairs.  They are all golden, and evocative of the shape of the throne, and all are identical.

“I do not understand,” Loki says.  “What is this?”

“After you…disappeared, Odin grew unwell.  Losing you, it broke something of him.  He began to spend more and more time in the Odinsleep, and unlike other times he Slept, when he emerged each time, he was weaker.  Less…there.  He was growing older and weaker, and he knew it.  And so he decided that it was best that Thor ascend to the throne.  Thor was called back from Midgard, a move which he protested greatly.”

“But, the throne…”  Loki looks confused.  “Did Thor refuse it?”

“He had no choice but to accept,” Frigga says.  “There was no one else.”

A shadow of coldness passes over Loki’s features.  “And ever my  _brother_ is handed the things which he does not value in the slightest.”

“Wait, does that mean that Jane is _Queen_?” Darcy asks.  “Where is she?  Can I see her?”

There is sorrow in Frigga’s eyes now.  “Jane Foster elected to remain in Midgard.  It was her choice, and one which Thor still grieves.”

“Oh.  So they’re not even together anymore?”

“It was her choice,” Frigga repeats.  “Thor has taken no other since, though there has been many offers.  He and Jane have remained friends, and she has worked with many of Asgard.”

“So, after everything, we’re back where we started, then.  Thor rules as King, for all that he said he never desired the throne.”

“Ah.”  Frigga walks a slow circle around the chairs, touching the back of each one as she passes.  “There, your brother surprised us all.  He took the throne, and immediately began to make changes.  The crown is a ceremonial symbol only, and he has never sat on the throne itself.  The ruling of the realm is carried out by a Council of twelve.  This Council.”

Loki looks around at the chairs.  “ _Thor_ thought of this?  That must have given him quite a headache.”

Frigga pauses at one chair.  “I am a member of the Council, as are the Lady Sif and Hogun.  There are representatives from other realms, as well.  Thor sits to my right.”

“Thor’s friends, I see,” Loki says acidly.  “How surprising.”

Frigga lays a hand on the chair to her left.  “This seat has been empty since the Council was formed.  Publicly, it is seen as a symbol - the space for every man to fill on the Council.  Privately, it has been kept only for one man.  Thor insisted that it be kept for you.  He always held out hope that you would return, said that if anyone would find a way to cheat death, it would be you.  Oft he has lamented the emptiness of this chair and wished he had your help in negotiations.”

Loki stares at the empty chair for a long time.  “He would just give me this?  After…everything?”

“He saw what you did.  What you sacrificed for Darcy, for the people of Midgard and all of the realms.  It is only that which you have earned.”

“And what would Asgard think?  How would they accept _me_ on their Council?  How would Odin accept that?”

“Odin does not sit on the Council,” Frigga says.

Loki walks slowly around the circle of chairs until he is standing behind the one to Frigga’s left.  He runs his fingers over the back of it, rests them lightly against the gilded wood.

“Why the secrecy, then?” he asks.  “Why do we need to be unseen?”

“There is something else I wish you to see,” Frigga says.

 

#

 

Loki stares at the simulacrum.

The simulacrum is sitting at a small table, a fat leatherbound book open before it.  It is not reading, but staring into the empty cell opposite, apparently lost in thought.  From the place Darcy stands, it looks to her as though the simulacrum is looking directly back at Loki.  

There are guards posted at either end of the dungeons, all of them looking as bored as the guards outside Loki’s rooms had.  All of the other cells are unoccupied, the simulacrum the only prisoner.

Darcy moves so she stands next to Loki, so she can see the simulacrum’s face fully.  It’s eyes are cold, much colder than she ever remembers Loki’s being, though they must have been.  It’s movements are stiff, and even sitting casually reading, it looks as though it is poised on the edge of flying into battle.

“Clever,” Loki says.  Frigga had explained the presence of the simulacrum to him on the way down to the dungeons.  “And morbid, for it to still be here.  Why not just let it die after I did?”

“I…wished to.”  Frigga stands as far back from the simulacrum’s cell as possible, her arms folded.  “Thor would not allow it.  I did not understand it at first.  It was only after some time that I realised that it was his last true link to you.  That he came down here and spoke to it, even though it rarely spoke back.”

Loki turns away from the cell.  Emotions flicker in his eyes, and his lips tremble slightly.  “Does Odin know the truth of this?”

“He has been told, but the truth is a thing that he finds increasingly difficult to keep hold of,” Frigga says.  “Some days he speaks of you and Thor as though you are both boys, still.  Some days he believes you dead, and others he believes that this in the dungeons is you.”

“Can I…can I see him?” Loki asks, his voice small.

“He is in the Odinsleep, but yes, I will take you.”  Frigga holds out her hands.  “Come.”

 

#

 

Loki looks down at Odin.  Odin looks to Darcy an old, old man.  He is thinner than when she last saw him, his face grey.  If Frigga had not told them that he was Sleeping, Darcy would have thought him close to death.

Perhaps he is, she thinks.

“Did you wish to hide me from him?” Loki asks, sitting down at Odin’s bedside.  “Is that why we’re hidden?”

Frigga waves a hand, and warmth flows over Darcy.  The world comes back into sharp focus.

“It was not Odin I wished to hide you from,” Frigga says.  

Loki looks utterly confused.  It is an odd expression on him  “I do understand any of this.  Why show us all of this?”

“Can’t you see?” Darcy asks.  “She’s giving you a choice, Loki.”

Frigga gives her a warm smile.  “Indeed, Darcy.  I show you these things simply to illustrate what you can choose, if you wish it.”  She stands, and comes around to Loki’s side of the bed, kneels before him and takes his hands in hers.  “You can choose to take your seat on the Council, be part of the power ruling the nine realms.  Or you can leave Asgard today, choose your own path.  Leave Loki Laufeyson in the palace dungeons.”

Loki’s eyes flicker to Odin, then back to Frigga.  “And who would I be, if I leave Loki Laufeyson behind?”

“Whoever you want to,” Darcy says.  

Loki blinks rapidly.  “What of Heimdall?  The guards who saw us arrive?”

“Heimdall saw what you did, defeating Hel.  He agrees that you have earned your freedom, should you choose it.  The guards are under the impression that you were released from your cell for a time, and were merely returning to it.  Darcy was called here to assist with some of Jane Foster’s work.  These impressions become truths if they are left undisturbed.”  Frigga’s hands tighten on her son’s.  “The only people who know the truth of it are us and Thor.  Everyone else will be told what you wish.  We can declare your death, or you can remain imprisoned, leave open your option to return to Asgard and take your place on the Council.”

“And what of Thor?” Loki asks.

“Thor believes that you should choose as you will,” Thor says from the doorway.  Thor is stripped of his armour, and Mjolnir is held loosely at his side.  He sets the hammer down and moves to embrace his brother.  Loki stiffens at first, then relaxes into the embrace.  “It is good to see you, my brother.  I am truly sorry for the shackles and not being able to explain anything.”

Loki searches Thor’s face.  “You truly believe that I should choose as I will?”

“I believe you have earned the right,” Thor says.  “If you had been here at the time, I would have offered you the crown, also.”

“Would you offer it now?” Loki asks.

“Do you wish it?”

Loki blinks.  Blinks again.  “No.  No.”  His eyes move to Darcy.  “I have found that which is worth far more.”

Darcy feels her cheeks flush.  Thor reaches over, clasps a hand over her shoulder.

“I believe that I have you to thank for my brother living and breathing,” he says.  “Midgard ever continues to surprise me.”

“We may not be gods, but we can kick ass when we want to,” Darcy says.  “Even those of us with no superpowers.”  The magic shifts inside her, a gentle reminder.  “Which I guess isn’t me any more.  Crap, do I have to be an Avenger now?  Though I could go for something like Black Widow’s outfit, though I doubt my ass would look as good as hers in it.”  She’s aware suddenly that everyone is staring at her.  “Um, sorry.”

“You get to choose whatever you want to be, also,” Thor says.  “I suspect that if you asked, there would be a place for you working with the Avengers or with SHIELD.  Or in Asgard.”

“Holy crap, I could be an Avenger,” Darcy whispers beneath her breath.  “Holy crap.”

“The same would go for Loki, if Midgard is the place he wishes to be,” Thor says, turning back to Loki.  “Stark has expressed a desire to work with you, for example.”  Thor smiles, a genuine, open expression.  “Or you can choose something else entirely.”

“You would trust me to do that?” Loki asks.  “To choose?”

“I would,” Thor says.

“As would I,” Frigga adds.

Loki looks at Odin.  “I could choose to kill him right here.”

“Yes, you could.”  Thor deliberately sets Mjolnir down, crosses his arms.  “Would you?”

“After what he’s done, I should,” Loki says.  He stands, walks a circle around the bed.  “He deserves it, and more, for all the lives he’s ruined, all the lives he’s taken.  Everything he’s done in the name of his own power.”

Darcy’s stomach twists into a knot, watching Loki prowl around the room.   Loki leans over the bed, a hand outstretched, long fingers splayed over Odin’s neck.  An inch lower, a twitch of his muscles, and he could strangle Odin.  Loki’s fingers twitch.

Darcy stands, comes around to Loki’s side.  Stands close enough that she knows he can feel her body heat, but she doesn’t touch him.  “He made mistakes.  Huge mistakes.  That’s kind of what people do.  It’s just that most of his were amplified by his power.”

“If this were your father,” Loki says to Darcy.  “If it was him lying here, asleep, would you kill him?  After the things he did?”

Darcy thinks, images flashing through her mind.  “No.  I wouldn’t.  Because he would have to live with them too.”

Loki’s hand shakes more, and then he lets it fall to his side.  Looks at Thor, then Frigga, then Darcy.  “There are…dark beings in the universe.  Beings which have cause to wish harm to me, and to any I hold dear.  Would you risk walking with me, knowing that?”

“Dude, I have a death goddess pissed at me.”  Darcy snugs an arm around Loki’s waist.  “Beat that.”

Loki presses a kiss to the top of Darcy’s head, his own arm wrapping around her.  “I believe that I would like to go to Midgard for a time.  To help heal some of the troubles that I caused.”

Thor nods.  “The place on the Council is yours, any time you wish it.”

“I have only one request,” Loki says.  “The simulacrum.  Release the spell.  Let the people of Asgard know that I live.  I have had enough of deception, of hiding.”  He pauses.  “Though I think perhaps that I shall leave the name of Laufeyson behind.  Perhaps I shall take the name Loki Friggason instead.”

Frigga smiles, and rises to wrap her arms around her son.  “I shall be honoured if you do.”

“As I am ever honoured to call you brother,” Thor says.  “I hope you shall not be long away from Asgard.  We would always benefit from your counsel.”

Loki takes a long breath, releases it slowly.

“Are you actually speechless?” Darcy asks.  “Never thought I’d see this day.”

Loki grins, then kisses her thoroughly.

“Now they’re both speechless,” Thor says.  “ _Now_ this is a day to remember.”

 

#

 

Darcy and Loki stand on the Bifrost, alone but for Heimdall, who remains at a respectful distance.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Darcy asks.  “It’s not like you’ve ever really enjoyed being in Midgard before.  Plus, there’s kind of the whole people knowing you as the guy who tried to take over the world bit.”

“People change,” Loki says.  “Isn’t that something that Midgardians say?  Look at Tony Stark.”

“True.”  Darcy squeezes Loki’s hand.  “Still, we don’t have to do this.”

“Asgard will always be here,” Loki says.  “And I am certain that Thor will find reasons to call me back.  And when Odin awakes next, I’ll return.”

“We’ll return,” Darcy says.  “Stuck with me, remember?”

Loki rolls his eyes, heaves an exaggerated sigh.  Darcy elbows him in the ribs.  “Ow,” he says, rubbing the place she poked, a mock wounded expression on his face.

“Just wait until I can do that with magic.”  Darcy grins, bounces on her toes.

“Oh, God.”

“That’s you, remember?”  Darcy pauses.  “Wait, does having Asgardian magic make _me_ a god now?  Will I live as long as you?”

“I have no idea, actually.”

“I guess we get to find out.”

They watch as Heimdall opens the Bifrost.  Heimdall nods to them both respectfully as they pass him.

“I guess we get to find out everything,” Darcy says.  She stands on tiptoe so she can kiss Loki.  “Together.”

He smiles, kisses her back.  “Together.”

Together, they step into the Bifrost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks!
> 
> Just to let you know, I am going to be working on a novel-length sequel to this fic, entitled "The Star-Filled Sky". I am going to be going back to focusing mainly on writing original fiction over the next year, but I will be writing fan fic still - updates will likely just be slower than they've been for BDT.
> 
> And thank you all again. You rock.


	34. Author notes

I've begun work on the sequel:  _[The Star-Filled Sky](../../1172981)_[.](../../1172981)

I also have vague ideas of this being a trilogy. We'll see. And for those who aren't aware, the titles are taken from Yeats'  _The Second Coming_.

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;  
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.  
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out  
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi  
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;  
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,  
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,  
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it  
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know  
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep  
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


End file.
